A History of Moments
by CeeCeeSings
Summary: A Chelsie fic delving into significant moments of their past at Downton, canon moments and beyond. Begins shortly after Elsie arrives at Downton and will follow through their entire relationship. Other characters appear, but this is most definitely a close-up look at how this relationship and his couple evolved over the decades. A few chapters have mature content
1. Tea Time

Summer, 1890

Elsie Hughes took the stairs into the kitchen, twisting her neck 'round until she felt a satisfying pop towards her left shoulder. This day had begun, as every day did, slightly after dawn, with all of the frenetic energy that went along with rising, dressing, gobbling breakfast in the servants' hall, then dashing upstairs to get the downstairs rooms aired, flowers set, furniture dusted, and all of the bedrooms and dressing rooms remade.

It was always a hectic time of day, and had become even more so in the past few months; Robert Crawley had returned from London with his astonishingly beautiful – and astonishingly _American_ – bride this past winter, and Miss Rosamund was being courted by a wealthy banker. The house always seemed full to overflowing. No matter. Each morning, right around eleven o'clock, Elsie liked to sneak a strong cup of tea

 _The children of the house are no longer children,_ she thought with a smile. _And mayhaps, a new generation of Crawleys is already in the works._ Elsie grinned to a little, thinking of Lady Cora's obviously loosened corsets this morning. _Well, nevermind that Elsie, you best hurry, or you'llve no time for that cuppa._ She reached the bottom of the staircase and headed down the hall, toward the kitchen.

"You appear to be a cheery mood this morning, Elsie," Mr. Carson's booming voice cut through her thoughts and she stifled a yelp. Mr. Carson wasn't much for yelping, startled or otherwise.

"Certainly, Mr. Carson. 'Tis a fine summer's day, is it not?" She gazed up at him, keeping _most_ of what her Mam called her "natural inclination for impertinence" out of her voice. _If only he knew what I was smiling about. My utter cheek._ She bit down on the insides of her own cheeks to tamp down any stray giggles that might be tempted to escape.

"Indeed it is, Elsie," he raised one dark eyebrow at her momentarily, and for a second, she felt almost transparent. He was a rather serious man, Mr. Carson. Well, no; not serious, say, but rather…appropriate. He always wanted things and people to be _appropriate._ To any given time, place, or class. He seemed wholly unmalleable for such a young man. He couldn't be more than forty, perhaps ten, a dozen years older than herself. But in the two years she'd been working at Downton, she had never seen him out of place. Not a hair, not a word. But…was the corner of his mouth twitching upward, a hint of a grin to match her own?

"I am, in fact, glad I ran into you," he continued, now all business. "Mrs. Davis wants a word. I know you usually take tea now, and I've had one of the kitchen girls set you both up in Mrs. Davis' sitting room. She won't keep you long; and we both know you are ahead of yourself, as you usually are."

Elsie was gobsmacked. Not that Mrs. Davis, the housekeeper, wanted to see her. But that Mr. Carson knew her habit of taking a late morning tea, when she had a chance. And that he didn't seem the least put out by it. That he didn't find it…inappropriate.

"Well, sir, I suppose…" and she trailed off, not exactly sure where or how to end the sentence.

"Yes, very good. Run along, you shan't keep Mrs. Davis waiting. I trust you'll have a lot of questions," he finished, rather nonsensically, from Elsie's point of view.

"Well now I certainly do," she retorted, then felt her face grow warm. _Utter cheek._ "I meant to say, thank you Mr. Carson. I'll be on my way now." She hurried towards Mrs. Davis' sitting room, not sure whether she felt more like laughing or crying.

And it's unclear whether or not, had she seen Charles Carson gazing after her, knowing what awaited her in that room, and slightly undone by the mild sass of the smart, attractive head housemaid, what she would have made of the grand grin that spread across the butler's face at that moment.


	2. An Unexpected Offer

Elsie smoothed a stray hair back under her cap, straightened her shoulders. Her neck was still tight, but better than a few minutes ago. She knocked on the housekeeper's sitting room door. She felt excited, but wasn't quite sure why.

"Come in," Mrs. Davis' rather deep voice issued from the room.

"Mr. Carson said you wanted to see me, ma'am," Elsie stood a few feet from the doorway. Mrs. Davis' tiny, tidy form was seated at her desk, her white-streaked faded blond hair bent over a ledger.

"Ah, Elsie, yes," Mrs. Davis responded, not lifting her head from the figures in her books. "Please, pour yourself some tea and sit down." She gestured to the tray on the sideboard, which also contained some small ginger biscuits. Elsie helped herself to the unexpected treat and sat across from the older woman.

Mrs. Davis finally set aside her pen, her fingertips dark with ink, and regarded Elsie with her watery blue eyes. She got up and made her way to the tea tray, her compact body moving with purpose, even during the most mundane task. Elsie knew she must be sixty, at least, but she moved like a much younger woman.

"Well, Elsie, I am glad we have this time to speak on our own," she settled herself behind her desk. "Tell me, how do you feel about your time at Downton thusfar?"

Elsie was slightly nonplussed. Usually her conversations with her superior were extremely specific, focused on a task, event or staffing issue that need addressing and resolution swiftly and fairly. This rather sweeping, open-ended question wasn't something she was used to. She felt unsure how to proceed. Mrs. Davis seemed to understand.

"My apologies, I will be clearer: have you felt that your time here has been industrious, time well spent? Do you find yourself well-suited to a life of service, and all that may come with it?" The older woman leaned back in her seat.

Elsie could manage now. She wasn't sure where this was going, but a path was emerging, one she could venture onto. "Well, Mrs. Davis, my work here at Downton has been rather rewarding. My placement before this, as you know, was in a house far less grand than this, with a less grand family. Frankly, I feel like every day allows me an opportunity to learn something more, to expand my knowledge." She paused, wanting to say more, but unwilling to continue without encouragement.

"Go on," Mrs. Davis prompted.

"And ma'am, on a personal and practical level, my wages and position have been enormously helpful to my family. My mam cares for my younger sister, Becky, on her own. Becky…" Elsie trailed off. The space inside her heart where Becky resided was tender and hard to reveal.

"Yes, your sister is…troubled," Mrs. Davis seemed to be searching for the right word.

"That's the thing, ma'am," Elsie replied, finally relaxing a little. "Becky, she feels no trouble, really. A sunnier soul you'll never meet. She has the heart and mind of a small child, full of wonder and love. Her trouble is ours, my mam's and mine, to bear." She couldn't remember saying so much about her sister since her initial interview and correspondence with Mrs. Davis, and she certainly didn't discuss her sister with anyone else at Downton, save her dear friend Margie, another housemaid.

"That's why I hired you, do you realize, Elsie?"

"How do you mean, Mrs. Davis?"

"Running a house like this, it's not just about ledgers and kitchen stores and managing grand events, though to be sure, that's all part of it. The _real_ job here is exactly what you have always done, for your family: vast responsibility combined with deep dedication to the _people_ who work here. Yes, our masters are grand and important, to the rest of the world. But in order to run this house, you must also value those who keep it running."

"Ma'am, if I may be so bold, I will say that you embody that ideal quite precisely," Elsie felt herself blush, uncomfortable expressing affection for this kind but no-nonsense woman.

Mrs. Davis set her tea aside, and Elsie was startled to see the older woman's eyes shiny with unshed tears. "That means more than you can know. I have given over forty years of my life to this house and its people – _all_ of them, upstairs and down – and now, it's time I rest. Which is why I want you to take on the position of housekeeper."

Elsie felt the air leave her body. She gripped the worn wooden edge of Mrs. Davis' desk. "Pardon?"

"I didn't mean to startle you, Elsie," Mrs. Davis began, gently taking the younger woman's wobbling tea cup from her shaking hand. "I can see I have taken you off-guard. But…tell me. Have you not ever wondered what it would be like, running this place?"

Elsie gathered herself. What Mrs. Davis was asking, well, honestly, she _had_ thought about it, in passing, as she lay in the narrow bed in her quarters, listening to Margie's soft snoring. In those magical, murky minutes before sleep engulfed her, she imagined herself, capless, in a smart, staid dark gown, keys dangling from her waist, directing the staff preparing for a fabulous ball in the grand hall. She also imagined herself helping Joe Burns unload feed for livestock, their children clamoring around her cotton skirts. She also imagined Becky's flat, wide-eyed, beloved face, dotted with freckles, pointing up to the sun, somewhere safe and happy, once their mam was dead and gone.

"I have," she finally sighed. "I have, ma'am, and I admit…I wondered if it wasn't something that might happen, eventually, if I were to stay at Downton for a long while. I suppose I am surprised you are planning on retiring this early." She finished hastily, not sure if she'd overstepped her bounds.

Mrs. Davis let out a rusty chuckle. "I am sixty-four years of age, m'dear. I have been in service for fifty years, forty-three of them in this very house. It does not feel 'early' to me, Elsie."

"Of course not, Mrs. Davis. It's the timing, you understand? Some things…some things in my life are a little unsettled as of now. I suppose…I suppose I will have to settle them, one way or another," she finished, raising her hands in a half-shrug.

"A young man, is it?"

"Yes, in part. Though neither of us are as young as we were when we first stepped out together," Elsie thought of Joe, his easy smile, his sunburned lips on hers, a few stolen kisses behind the church hall. "When I first went into service, in my last position, we had an understanding. I would…earn…until I was 'round thirty or so. That was for Becky, to secure a place for her, once our mam was gone. Joe, he was willing to wait for me, and was willing to pitch in for Becky's care, once I had laid a foundation for her. He's a good, solid lad, Joe Burns. Though he's no more a lad, than I am a lass, anymore."

"No, Elsie, you are no longer a lass," Mrs. Davis stood, and so did she. "You are a woman now. And you must determine: what does this woman's life look like? If you turn down this position, nothing more will be said of it; you may continue employment here as head housemaid as long as you see fit. But I would like you to strongly consider what I am offering. We can never _really_ be certain of the shape of our lives. We can only choose a path, and do our best when the terrain becomes difficult. Now. Off you go, they'll be clamoring for supper any minute."

Elsie walked towards the door, her heart and head a jumble. "Thank you, Mrs. Davis. I will not take this offer lightly. I will tell you, latest, tomorrow morning what my plans are."

"Thank you, Elsie. And perhaps, by tomorrow's supper, I will be calling you Mrs. Hughes." And she closed the door, leaving Elsie standing in the hall, shaking.

"Mrs. Hughes," she whispered, tasting the words. And laughed quietly, hurrying off to the work that was always waiting.


	3. Two & Half Glasses of Port

Charles Carson was bent over the wine cellar ledger, adjusting amounts based on what had been consumed at this evening's dinner. He set aside a small carafe of a decent port on his sideboard, in anticipation of Mrs. Davis' arrival. Though he kept himself in check outwardly, he very much enjoyed the evening victuals with the housekeeper, who felt like more of a mother to him than his own, whom he hadn't seen in years. Not due to any particular ill will, merely because the path of his life had taken him far from kith and kin. He especially enjoyed their _tête-á-têtes_ when there was something of particular import to relay, and he certainly knew something that fell into that category.

His mind wandered a little, in these first quiet moments of his day. He remembered with a start that Mrs. Davis had spoken to Elsie Hughes this morning about taking over the housekeeper position. And since she was no fool, he had no doubt she would jump at such a unique opportunity. To think – housekeeper at Downton at her age! She would shadow Mrs. Davis for several months, not only to be taught the full scope of the position, but for the staff to adjust to her new role.

 _Mrs. Hughes,_ he mused. He recalled four years prior when he himself had transitioned into the role of butler. No one seemed to have any difficulty with the switch, but then, of course, he was a man, of imposing size. Really rather too tall to be a footman, if he was honest with himself, and much better suited in looks and temperament for the role of butler.

 _Elsie…Mrs. Hughes,_ he thought again. He imagined, a half a year from now, her stepping in her for a glass of port or red as the evening drew long, and something in his stomach leapt. Would that be…appropriate? There was something very comforting about his chats with Mrs. Davis, but surely, their tone and content would change once the housekeeper was a woman ten, fifteen years his junior? For some reason, the whole idea made him nervous. Elsie's tart retort to him earlier today popped into his mind. _The cheek of her, truly._ But somehow, she never came off as disrespectful. She has that wonderful balance of industry and humanity he appreciated in Mrs. Davis.

"A penny for your thoughts?" Mrs. Davis was at the doorway, a small smile on her face. For the first time, she looked tired to him. Very tired.

"I like to think they have slightly higher value, thank you very much, Mrs. Davis," he smiled, and poured her some wine.

"So, what news?" She finished her drink quickly, poured another. He raised one eyebrow at her. She chuffed a little, sipped the second glass more delicately. "Remember who was here first, Charles."

"Indeed, Mrs. Davis," he responded, slightly warmed by her teasing use of his Christian name. Not many people in his life used it anymore. He continued:

"We've got two hall boys leaving at the end of the month, which we always knew was a possibility. The Drewe brothers from Yew Tree Farm. I suppose farming has a stronger pull on them than a life of service. There was a minor disagreement between Lady Grantham and Miss Rosamund when the ladies retired after dinner, about Mr. Painswick, but they appeared to resolve everything before bedtime." He sighed deeply.

"You don't approve, Mr. Carson?" Mrs. Davis grinned at him over the rim of his glass.

"It's not _my_ place to approve or disapprove," he sipped his own wine.

"Ha! I know your feelings on the subject, well enough."

"It seems wrong for the son and daughter of an Earl to wed…commoners."

"And in _his_ case, an _American_ commoner," Mrs. Davis' pale eyes were twinkling. "She _is_ quite lovely, though, Lady Cora. Superficially sweet and genteel, but I have seen bursts of strength in her, and she's still quite young. I think she'll make a wonderful Countess, when the time comes."

"Which reminds me," Charles lowered his voice, though of course the door was closed and most of the staff was off to bed. "It is confirmed there will be a Grantham heir in the nursery by next year."

"Ah! As we thought. But we cannot be certain it will be a boy."

"Of course it will be a boy."

"That's up to chance and God, Charles."

"In any case, Lady Cora is young and healthy, they will most certainly have a boy, even if it's not this time around."

"Chance and God, as I said," Mrs. Davis poured herself a third glass – but only halfway. "Now, the last bit of business, and I am off to bed. Elsie Hughes."

"Yes, you spoke, and I am assuming we will move Margie up to head housemaid and she will begin her training in earnest in the next few weeks, and when she is settled, you will retire to a life of ease and pleasure," despite his joke, a sadness tugged at his heart. He cared deeply about Mrs. Davis and would miss her accordingly.

"In fact, she has not given me an answer one way or the other yet," Mrs. Davis replied. He was shocked.

"I never took her for a fool," he nearly spat out.

"She's no fool, as you well know. But life is complicated, Mr. Carson. As you know. The twists and turns of it…can lead you towards a life at Downton, and away from a life in the dance halls." She gazed steadily at him.

"That feels unfair, Mrs. Davis," he was somewhat hurt that she had brought up his time performing, his time with Alice…

"I wasn't trying to be unfair, Mr. Carson, merely suggesting that everyone in this house has pages in their stories that are unread by others. That applies to Elsie Hughes. She has complications, obligations and entanglements, like everyone else does. She has promised her answer to me by tomorrow morning, in any case. So we will see. I hope, for your sake, she accepts," Mrs. Davis rose, and bid him good night.

Several minutes passed, wherein he pondered her words, and his own memories. His own unread pages. Then there was a sharp, sudden rap on the door.

"Come in!"

Elsie Hughes stood in the door way, looking uncharacteristically flustered. Her cap was slightly askew. "Mr. Carson, please come quick. Two of the stable boys are rowing out in the yard. I was able to talk some sense in them, and a few of the footmen are out there keeping them apart, but I thought you should know."

"Indeed, thank you Mrs. Hughes," he said it, and they both gasped. "Elsie, rather."

"I suppose we'll see. Tomorrow. You best be off, they were quite riled up, I believe."

As he ran to the yard, he heard her, just above a whisper. "Mrs. Hughes. Hmm."


	4. This Woman's Life

Elsie was already awake when the scullery maid pounded on the door of the quarters she shared with Margie. As far back as she could remember, she had fallen into a deep slumber within minutes of her head hitting the pillow. But not last night. She would pay for it today, but at least she knew her own heart: she would trade Joe Burns' chapped lips for a set of keys worn at her waist. A simple cotton skirt for a dark brocade one. This shared room, or a shared bed with a husband, for a larger, solo bed. She looked over at Margie, who was slowly stretching out bed. Her auburn curls were a tousled cloud above her green eyes.

"Well? Am I sayin' g'mornin' to Elsie or Mrs. Hughes?" Margie pulled her simple nightgown over her head, and began dressing for the day.

"Ah, Margie, none of that. I'll always be Elsie to you, you daft girl," Elsie joined her friend in dressing. She felt a tug at her heart. She would be losing her roommate, certainly, but she hoped she would not be losing her friend. She was gaining much, to be sure, but she couldn't help but think of the things she was leaving behind. She hoped Margie wasn't one of them.

"There's the answer then," Margie was smiling, but her eyes looked sad. "It's been an honor boarding with you, Mrs. Hughes." Her voice was teasing but gentle.

"They'll be making you head housemaid, you know," Elsie didn't feel like there was any point in being coy about her decision. What was going to be done, would be done. She glanced over at her nightstand. Two letters sat there, waiting to be posted. One thin, one fat. The thin one was to her mother and Becky. The fat one to Joe Burns. Each tugged her heart in opposite directions.

"Indeed. I'll nawt be complainin' over the promotion, of course," Margie pinned her curls back with practiced ease, tucking them under her cap. "In a few years' time, after Peter and I save, we'll have enough to be married and gone. Mayhaps we can even get started earlier, with the extra money coming in." Peter was one of Downton's footmen, tall (but not _too_ tall), dashing and kind, with a crooked nose and an easy smile. He and Margie, who was a few years younger than Elsie, had been steadfastly courting since before she herself had arrived at Downton.

"It's all settled to everyone's liking then," Elsie grinned at her friend, who returned the smile. The breakfast bell rang out and they both hurried to the door, Elsie tucking her letters into her apron pocket. They felt heavier there than they had any right to.

oooOOOooo

Charles headed downstairs toward the servants' hall, slightly distracted. Some silverware had gone missing at breakfast and he hoped there was nothing sinister about it. Carelessness could be forgiven, one time, at least. But theft was verboten and grounds for immediate dismissal. He prayed the missing pieces would turn up. Firing someone was always nasty business. He'd done it several times in the past few years, and he never got used it. In a way, he hoped he never did. He headed towards Mrs. Davis' sitting room, passing the unending clanging and clattering of the kitchen.

He was raising his fist to knock when the door swung open. Elsie Hughes and Margie O'Connell stepped out together, somehow both smiling and serious. They gasped at Carson's surprise proximity, but both recovered quickly.

"Mr. Carson," Margie nodded. "I'll be off then, much to do." She hurried away with a short backwards glance at her friend.

Charles took stock of Elsie herself. She turned back to him, squaring her shoulders. If he didn't know her decision when the two women had walked out of Mrs. Davis' room together, he did now. Something…something in the shape of her face, the lines of her mouth more set. She suddenly seemed older, more determined.

"Well, Mrs. Hughes, I would like to congratulate you on your new position. I do believe you will be the youngest housekeeper in the history of the Abbey," he nodded to her, and held out his hand.

"Thank you, Mr. Carson. I hope to be the best, as well, if time and history proves it, or at the very least, to make Mrs. Davis proud," he heard her voice catch a little at the name of her superior, but she reached out her hand, which he engulfed with his much larger one. Her palm was chafed from housework; it would become smoother as she left the job of housemaid behind. He pictured her without her white cap, and decided it was easy enough to do so.

He released her hand, but felt that there was more to say. She was still looking at him expectantly, her dark eyes full of excitement, fear…and sadness. _When we gain something, we lose other things._ He thought of Charlie, of Alice, of what might have been, if she had chosen to take Carson as her last name, instead of Grigg.

"I have no doubt at all," he finally said. "And...Mrs. Hughes. I honestly believe you will never regret your decision. There is lasting satisfaction and happiness to be found here, in industry and hard work."

Her face suddenly changed, there was a bareness to it, an openness, he'd never seen before. "You'll help me, Mr. Carson? Won't you?" It was such a plainly stated request, he was startled into an unplanned response.

"Elsie, I am always at your disposal. Always," he caught himself. "Mrs. Hughes, I mean."

"Might I inquire how long the pair of you intend to conduct business in my doorway?" Mrs. Davis' teasing voice rang out, startling them both.

"Apologies, Mrs. Davis, we were just finishing here," Mr. Carson replied through the slightly opened door.

"I will miss her sorely," Elsie said softly. He turned to her, eyes wide. He took a deep breath, took a chance.

"As will I," he replied. "But…we will have each other." And with that he entered Mrs. Davis' room, leaving her standing, startled, in the hall alone.


	5. The Biggest Goose You Can Find

**A/N: I really need to finally say thank you to the enthusiastic readers and reviewers of this Chelsie fic of mine. It's my first foray into this series, and this ship. I so much enjoy putting this story out into the universe, and love reading how it touches people. So thanks, so much. I love hearing from you all. Warmly, CeeCee**

 **Nota Bene: If you read this Chapter when I initially posted it, I left out an entire scene between Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Driscoll, which might enrich the story a bit. I added it in about 30 minutes after the initial post. CeeCee**

Christmas Eve, 1890

Elsie Hughes could feel sweat collecting at the base of her corset and did her best to ignore it. A light snow was fall outside, making Downton's grounds look like something out of a fairytale. But here, in the kitchen, temperatures were toasty, and getting hotter by the moment.

"Mrs. Hughes, I don't expect it seems much to you, but the cooking sherry, it's disappearin' faster than I can reshelve it and get it under lock and key," Mrs. Driscoll, the head cook, had pulled her into a "quiet" corner to discuss the matter. "Look here, I know everyone goes for a nip at the holidays, but this is out of hand." The cook twisted the towel in her hands around and around. "Not meanin' any disrespect, of course, but do you think I should take it up with Mrs. Davis, before she leaves?"

 _Twenty-three,_ Elsie thought to herself, adding another number to the times she'd heard that particular sentence uttered in the last few days. _The troops are restless,_ and she had to keep herself from smiling. The first time someone said it (Peter, Margie's beau, of all people) she had been affronted. The tenth, chagrinned. Now she simply felt what everyone else did: nervous and sad that their _de facto_ mother was leaving them at the New Year.

"No disrespect taken, and I am here to help," Elsie assessed Mrs. Driscoll closely. Her eyes kept wandering towards the stove, towards a young, flushed assistant cook. Polly. _Something there,_ Elsie thought. "Let's step into the hallway; I won't keep you long."

"Now then," Elsie turned back towards her. "Let me know your thoughts. You know your staff better than anyone else, I expect. Anyone seem…troubled….these days?"

"Well, ma'am, I'm not sure it's my place to say," Mrs. Driscoll continued to strangle her rag between her hands.

"If someone's in a bad way, for any reason, it's my job to sort them out, best I can. You'll be doing a disservice to them, and yourself, if we let this slide by. Don't you agree?" She gave the older woman a small, encouraging smile.

"Yes, I suppose you are right," Mrs. Driscoll looked her in the eye. "I'm thinkin'…I'm thinkin' mayhaps our girl Polly might be in a spot of trouble, with one of the lads from the stable. If you're catching my drift. Turnin' to the drink, to drown her sorrows…or, well…" she drifted off, peering at Polly, still industriously stirring a pot in the kitchen.

 _A pregnant kitchen girl. Lovely,_ Elsie thought to herself, but she turned back to Mrs. Driscoll. Reached out her hand and gave the woman's substantial arm a squeeze. "Leave it to me. I'll talk to Polly after dinner's been prepared and sent up. We'll take good care of her, Mrs. Driscoll."

"She's a good girl, really," the cook's eyes were teary, but she had tucked her towel back into the band of her apron. "I so appreciate your help, Mrs. Hughes. You're a good woman, as sure as I'm standing here. We've got nothin' to worry 'bout, with Mrs. Davis going. Nothin' a'tall." And she bustled back into the kitchen, looking like someone without a care in the world.

 _'Twasn't ever about the sherry, was it? You were just worried about that lass, and didn't know how to ask for help,_ Elsie realized she hadn't lied to Mrs. Davis a few months back. She really did learn something new at Downton, every day.

oooOOOooo

Charles Carson was, he admitted, rather tired this evening. The holidays at Downton were always beautiful, magical, really, but it did feel non-stop the whole week leading up to Christmas. And everyone was in especially high spirits, most particularly Lord & Lady Grantham, and Lord Robert and Lady Cora, who was looking quite beautiful as she reached the apogee of her pregnancy. Three of the four of them, in fact, had kept the champagne flowing well into the evening. Lady Cora demurred after half a glass and retired early.

He stopped in his study to grab two glasses, to share an intriguing muscat that Lord Grantham had gifted him early in the day with Mrs. Davis. He suddenly realized Elsie Hughes might be in the housekeeper's sitting room as well. He grabbed a third glass with some trepidation. He noticed Mrs. Driscoll and two of the senior cooks tidying up in the kitchen, leaving platters of fruitcake, petit fours and ginger bread cookies out for the servants to enjoy.

"Happy Christmas, Mrs. Driscoll, ladies," he called to them. It _was_ quite a nice tradition for the late night treats to be left out, since nearly all of the staff had to work during the holiday, unless their families lived on the estate or in the village. "The entire family sends their compliments, the dinner was beautiful. And I am certain the staff will tuck into these once they're down."

"Why thank you, Mr. Carson, and Happy Christmas to you too, sir," Mrs. Driscoll responded warmly. She was a good sort, had been her for over fifteen years. "I seem to recall these are long-time favorites of yours." She handed him several wrapped gingerbreads with a twinkle in her eye. Despite her enthusiasm, he could tell she was distracted. "Have you seen Mrs. Hughes, sir? Only thing, I had something I wanted to give her," she said hastily.

"Not since I went up for dinner service, no, but I will pass along the message to her," Carson went back into the hall, his hands quite full with potables and edibles. He stood at the housekeeper's sitting room door, trying to ascertain if either or both of the ladies were within. He was just about to knock when he felt a draft. He looked down the hall and saw the back door was ajar.

"That'll never do," he muttered, rushing over. He was about to knock the door closed with a free elbow when he heard voices outside. Two voices, both women, speaking low.

"So, you see Mrs. Hughes, 'twasn't nothing of that sort of trouble," a young woman's voice he could almost place. "I…did get a bit carried away, I know, but I felt me heart was breakin' into a thousand pieces, or like someone had cut me arm off, when he told me he was goin' on without me. I thought we had an understandin'. 'Twasn't true, none of it. He was all fancy words, no action." The voice wobbled, then broke into tears.

"There, lass. 'Tisn't worth your tears, the lout. You carry on here, as you have been. Mrs. Driscoll has faith in you, and so do I. You're a good sort of girl, a hard worker and a friendly way. They won't all be rapscallions, I can promise you that," Elsie Hughes' voice was firm and soft. Briefly, Carson wondered if he should let this conversation continue in privacy, but pushed away all feelings of guilt. _I am the butler, after all. Staff problems concern me as much as the housekeeper._

"Now, as for the cooking sherry that appears to have been used a bit too quickly: I'll be taking the cost of it out of your wages for the next three months. You'll not feel the pinch so much that way, but you'll be in good standing by Easter," Elsie's voice was still kind, but contained a hint of steel. Just a hint.

"Mrs. Hughes, you are too generous," the girl's voice responded. Carson finally placed it. Polly. One of the cooking assistants, sweet girl. Maybe not _so_ sweet, he now felt. "I – I never thought you'd let me keep my place here. I am speechless." Polly exhaled. She seemed to have gotten her tears under control.

"Well, it's Christmas, after all. And I trust next time you fall in love, you'll navigate the rougher waters, if they come, a little more carefully. We've all been there, don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Keep your heart close next time, Polly, and your sense closer. Now, run along. Off with you. Mrs. Driscoll will be waiting."

"Yes ma'am, Happy Christmas, ma'am, Mrs. Hughes!"

Carson backed up several steps before the girl pushed the door open, letting her run past.

"Happy Christmas, Mr. Carson!" She called out, as she dashed to the kitchen.

"Mr. Carson!"

"Mrs. Hughes. That girl is like Ebenezer Scrooge on Christmas morning," he tried looking stern but somehow wound up grinning at her.

"You look rather like Father Christmas, yourself, loaded down with goodies," she stepped towards him, grabbing the bottle and glasses. She smiled back up at him. There was snow glistening in her brown hair, on the shoulders of her dark dress. Her cheeks were pink with cold. She noted the three glasses.

"Mrs. Davis went to the last mass at the Church, if you were looking for her," as she spoke, she opened the wine and poured two glasses.

"She didn't say," Carson tried to hide his surprise – and his hurt feelings.

"I pushed her out," Elsie seemed to read his thoughts. "She was hemming and hawing all day about it, saying she'd always wanted to go to the candlelight service, but never had the chance. In forty years! Imagine. So I shooed her out the door. I told her we had it under control." She handed him a full glass.

Carson looked at her with amazement, taking his wine absentmindedly. "Shall we, then?" He gestured towards his study. There was a ball of emotion – fear, excitement, nervousness, worry – at the idea of the two of them behind closed doors together, but it would have to happen eventually.

She didn't seem so certain herself. She cleared her throat, "Well, if you wouldn't mind, it's quite lovely in the yard, with the snow covering the ground and still falling down. Feels more Christmassy than either of the offices."

"Well, it's highly irregular, but I suppose just this once…"

"Wonderful. Bring those biscuits with you. In any case, I want to hear just how much of my conversation with Polly you overheard," she stepped outside, not waiting for him.

He followed, somewhat put out. But then he sighed. The yard, usually somewhat dingy and crowded with debris of the day, was a covered with a thin layer of snow, blue in the emerging moonlight. A few flakes still danced in the chilly air.

"Quite lovely, isn't it?"

"Indeed, Mrs. Hughes, I am surprised to say. You do have your own way of doing things," he passed her a biscuit.

"Why thank you, Mr. Carson, for the cookie and the compliment," she took a bite, lifted her face up to the ebbing snow.

"I am not sure I meant it as such. I do believe you just granted a sherry thief reprieve and continued employment in this house."

"Well, Mr. Carson, as I said to Polly, it's Christmastime, and, shall I put it this way: the whole situation resolved itself in a much happier way than I had anticipated. I suppose that and the Christmas spirit moved me to leniency," she took another sip of wine.

"We've all been in love, Mr. Carson," she didn't look at him when she said it. She stated it like fact. Her voice became a little softer. "Would you have me fire a good worker over a broken heart? A momentary lapse of judgement?"

"I suppose not. She's a good girl, Polly, and I know that Mrs. Driscoll thinks she could go far here. We can turn a blind eye, just this once, considering that she'll pay the amount of the sherry."

"Now who's Scrooge, buying the biggest goose in the village?"

"Don't be impertinent, Mrs. Hughes."

"No, of course not. Do you have another biscuit for me, then?"

He passed her one, bite into one himself. He looked over at her again, saw the snow gathering again in her hair, lightening it, giving the illusion that she was aging in front of him. Somehow, the thought comforted him. Mrs. Davis would be gone, a week hence. Mrs. Hughes was here to stay. Carson sighed.

"Happy Christmas, Mrs. Hughes."

"Happy Christmas, Mr. Carson."


	6. The Shape of Friendship

October, 1892

"Elsie! Elsie!"

Mrs. Hughes spun around, her Christian name startling her, as it did these days. She'd been "Mrs. Hughes" for over two years now. Margie was hustling towards her. They were both on the family bedroom level balcony. No one else was in sight, save several footmen in the front hall below. She saw Mr. Carson's imposing form suddenly passed through the front hall in a diagonal below, and she hurriedly shushed her friend.

Margie stifled a giggle, rushed over to her friend. "Pardon _me_ , Mrs. Hughes."

Elsie was surprised at her friend's use of her given name in a public part of the house. Every few days, they would meet in her sitting room and be casual and friendly behind closed doors. It heartened Elsie in a way she couldn't quite explain; she felt more _real_ with Margie than she did with anyone else in the house, even Mr. Carson, whom she grew to like and respect more and more every day.

Then she saw Margie's face.

"Peter's never proposed?" She heard herself, sounding like a school girl with a friend who's been asked to go walking with a farm hand. She collected herself.

"He has, he has!" Margie was nearly jumping up and down.

"Don't be daft, come here," Elsie pulled her into the nearest bedroom, Lady Rosamund's, which was barer than usual given her upcoming nuptials to Marmaduke Painswick. Lady Rosamund had gone to London for the season and hadn't returned with the rest of the family in the summer. Elsie doubted she would ever return to Downton for a long period of time again.

"Now, tell me everything," Elsie knew time was short; tea time was approaching and the ladies were in the drawing room. Nanny was going to bring Misses Mary and Edith down for their daily visit with their mother and grandmother. _Visiting your children, how very different the rich are from the rest of us._ But never mind that now.

"Well, he caught me earlier, before supper. And, I dunno. I could just _see_ on his face what he was plannin', and I started shouting 'yes' without really thinkin'," Margie was glowing.

"Shouting?"

"Yes, _Mrs. Hughes¸_ shouting, but it was in the hall next to the kitchen, so no one paid us any mind," Margie rolled her eyes, then became serious. "Aren't…aren't you happy for me? At all?"

"Yes, yes of course," she took her friend in her arms, hugged her quickly. She _was_ happy for Margie. And Peter. They were so well-suited and they had been so responsible about their courtship: working and saving and planning. But she was melancholy as well. The last person who called her "Elsie" would be leaving Downton.

She pushed her feelings aside; she would sort through them later. She gave her friend a few more joyous, secret minutes in a Lady's bedroom, to convey all of her dreams and plans, which were finally coming true.

oooOOOooo

Charles Carson was furious. He sat behind his desk, watching Peter Donovan's exiting figure. His first footman, a reliable, industrious, pleasant worker, had just given his notice. He hadn't seen it coming. Not in the least. Peter had been here for nearly seven years, climbing the ranks. He was young, well-groomed, and well like by both the staff and the family. _No one is irreplaceable, but this might prove difficult,_ Carson mused. None of the junior footmen were ready to lead. He would have to speak to Lord Grantham and place an advert in the local papers.

He scrubbed his eyes, not sure if he was more angry or disappointed. He felt like Peter was throwing his life away. _Why work in a pub or a factory, when you can be at Downton?_ There was no accounting for sense and loyalty, he supposed.

The triple knock at the door that signified Mrs. Hughes' presence on the other side. He took two small glasses off the sideboard, filled them with sherry.

"Come in!"

"Good evening, Mr. Carson, I am glad you're free, I've news…" she stopped abruptly, studying his face. "Are you quite well, Mr. Carson?" Her face was full of genuine concern that Charles had slowly come to accept, then appreciate, perhaps even rely on, over the past few years. It felt…very different than Mrs. Davis' concern, but not unpleasant. Certainly not inappropriate. He might not say it in so many words aloud, but this woman was his friend. And a valued one, at that.

"I expect I am, Mrs. Hughes, for someone who's been betrayed," he responded, and was shocked when she chuckled in response. "What is so funny, may I ask?" He never thought of her as a callous person.

"I suppose Peter has given his notice, then," she sat, picked up a glass. Took a small sip, nodded in approval. "This is quite good."

"Never mind the drink, you _knew_ he was leaving, and you didn't see fit to share this information with me?" He realized how thunderous his voice had become towards the end of his question. Mrs. Hughes flinched slightly. "I apologize for raising my voice, but I am shocked by your lack of responsibility."

She raised her eyebrows at him. She seemed not put out at all by his harsh words. "Well now, I only became privy to this information after supper, and there was no chance to convey it to you before this very moment. In a way, I am glad Peter was able to speak to you before I did. It shows a real respect for you, the family, and this house. It will be difficult, to be sure, to find replacements for both the first footman and the head housemaid, but I am sure we can manage just-"

"Pardon?! Head housemaid?"

Elsie set her drink on the desk, smoothed her skirts, took a deep breath. "Ah, yes. I thought you were aware of the…relationship…between Margie O'Connell and Peter. They have recently become engaged, though they have been courting for years now, saving as best they could for the future."

"You _knew_ about this? For how long? How much? Why have you never mentioned a word of it to me?" Charles could feel his face getting red. He hadn't felt this angry in a long time. Clearly, no one around here knew the appropriate way to behave. It was deeply disappointing. And infuriating.

"Now see here, Mr. Carson. I did not know all of the intricate details of their plans, but anyone with a pair of eyes and half a brain can see they're mad about each other, and have been for some time," Elsie blurted the words out and almost instantly regretted them. _Men's egos are tender, Elsie. And Mr. Carson's especially so, despite outward appearances,_ Mrs. Davis' words rang in her ears, and felt herself flush. She had just called this man stupid to his face, in so many words. A good man, a generally kind man – but _must_ he be so desperately inflexible?

"Apparently, my half-brain was preoccupied with serving this house and the family we owe our loyalty to," his voice was dangerously quiet, his eyes blazing.

"Mr. Carson, I apologize for what I said. It was expressed poorly, but the intent behind it was sound: it is _our_ job, yours and mine, to see and hear everything we can about the people that work in this house, and to interpret it and intervene when necessary. Our greatest responsibility is to them."

"Indeed it is not, Mrs. Hughes. Our greatest responsibility, as you say, is to Downton, Lord & Lady Grantham and the rest of their honored family. Managing the staff stems from just that primary purpose," he worked hard to keep his voice modulated, but he couldn't quell the distress he was feeling. To think, he thought she knew the shape of her, after four years working together. He thought she was as dedicated as he was. He could hardly grasp the level of his disappointment in this moment.

Elsie Hughes was quiet as the moments stretched to minutes, and as he caught his breath. He gulped his sherry, and felt the weight of their differences of opinion sitting between them. He could see she was thinking, searching for something to say. He was out of words, and was slightly ashamed of that fact.

"Mr. Carson, I think…I think we can view ourselves, you and I, as opposite sides of the same coin. A unit that has little value if split, which must operate as a whole. Perhaps…perhaps it's best for you to pledge your loyalty to the family, to this house. However, I see it differently. I will give the Crawley my industry, my discretion, and my working years. But they do not have my loyalty, first and foremost. The people that keep this house running have my loyalty. Their troubles, their entanglements, their joys and their successes, whether or not those things are directly positive for the Crawley family or not," she shrugged, took another sip of sherry.

Her insides felt agitated, churned around like the washerwoman's daily load. She was learning something new about Mr. Carson, something she didn't particularly like. It was difficult. She had viewed his strictness, up until now, as admirable and a testament to his unflappable character. Now, she wasn't so sure.

Carson was flummoxed by what she was saying. Did she have no fealty, no sense of the order of things? "Mrs. Hughes…while it is admirable regard every person as valuable, I think we can both agree that there are some people who are more important than others, whose worth rises above the rest." He was certain of this. He poured himself another glass of sherry.

"No, Mr. Carson, I cannot say that, with or without conviction, as, in my eyes it's utterly untrue," she still wasn't sure how Margie and Peter leaving had become a great philosophical debate about humanity, but she held on tight to her thoughts, lest they escape her and she lost her words. "I am more joyful for Margie and Peter than I could ever be for Lady Robert and Lady Cora, though at the same time, I believe, with all my heart, each couple deserves as much happiness as chance and God allow," she stood, placed her empty sherry glass on his desk. "I shan't try to convince you otherwise, not now, and perhaps, I never will. But I will say this: I do believe that every living soul in this house right now, like the millions of others around the world, deserve the chance at a good life as much as the next. No one is more, or less, deserving. In that, in our humanity, we are all the same." And she left without a backwards glance.

Charles sat there for quite some time, through two more glasses of sherry and through the ebb and flow of the house bedding down for the evening, until he was certain he was the only one under the roof still awake. As his anger became indignation and settled into resignation and contemplation.

He didn't agree with Elsie Hughes, per se. Certainly not. But something inside of him, something that he had taken for granted as bedrock of his very being, felt like it had shifted. Imperceptibly, but there was movement there. And it terrified him.

He stood, grabbed a candle. Headed towards his quarters and undressed. He climbed into bed, still feeling shook. He stared at the gutting candlelight, at the patterns it made on his wall. He blew it out, blinked in the darkness.

Muttered to himself: "Damned woman."


	7. Two Funerals & A Postponed Christening

**A/N: I want to say again how appreciative I am for all of the reader reviews and responses. It's really wonderful to know I am sending this out to you all. Once I get started, the writing comes pretty quickly, so I try to update as fast as possible. One thing I TRY to be a stickler about is staying in-canon as to what the original work, be it TV program or novel, provides (and I actually love when readers call me out on something that isn't; I have gone back and edited previous stories based on comments, so call me out if I am WRONG!). That being said, once we get to 1912 and events that happened in the show, I may slow down, as I WILL review Chelsie scene (and individual ones) to ensure I get it "right". I wasn't sure exactly where I was going with this when I started, since it's a new 'ship for me, but I now see carrying on through 1925 and slightly beyond. (I can't bring myself to write about one of them dying, or Carson being excessively disabled by Parkinson's. I'll end before we arrive there.) ~ CeeCee**

Spring, 1896

The word had come in the middle of the night, wending it's was from the Far East to the rolling green hills of Yorkshire: Patrick Crawley, 6th Earl of Grantham, was dead. Downton and all of its inhabitants were turned upside down, no one more so than the newly minted 7th Earl, Robert Crawley.

Elsie Hughes dressed hurriedly at three o'clock in the morning, already missing the two and a half hours of sleep this night would be lacking. It would be a long day, and a longer week. The younger staff members rushed nervously to and fro, while the elders among them looked as if they'd each been whacked by a giant frying pan.

She had seen Mr. Carson in the family bedroom hallway, rushing past with no fewer than three footman, sometime before dawn, but hadn't time to stop and check in with him. He looked pale, but she was too busy escorting Lady Grantham – _the Dowager Countess, rather –_ to her son's sitting room while simultaneously assuring Nanny they would keep the uproar to a minimum "so the babbies could all sleep peaceful-like, especially sweet little Miss Sybil, Mrs. Hughes."

They reached the Earl's door, and Mrs. Hughes knocked gently. Forster, the Earl's valet, answered, even more subdued than usual. Mrs. Hughes could see Robert Crawley, slumped on the edge of a chaise, his face in his hands. Lady Cora – _Lady Grantham –_ stood above him, her hand rubbing his back, her tall form still slightly rounded from the recent arrival of Miss Sybil.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes. You are a lighthouse in the tempest," Lady Violet patted her arm. She glanced over at her distraught son, concern on her face, then turned to Elsie. "The truth is, I knew I would be a younger widow. I always told Patrick, all that gallivanting would catch up with him eventually. No matter where we go, we cannot escape the final trip," her eyes were shiny with tears as she left Mrs. Hughes' side and put her hand on Robert's other shoulder. With a nod to Forster, Mrs. Hughes left them to grieve in privacy.

oooOOOooo

 _Nearly eleven o'clock_ , Elsie thought distractedly, a quarter of the day later. _Really need that cuppa today._ She strode into the kitchen, which was in full swing for supper. Today, it would be more finger sandwiches, fruit and cheese, and other small items, given the topsy-turvy state upstairs.

"Mrs. Hughes, there you are," Beryl Patmore met her halfway, handing her a cup of tea, strong, with milk, exactly as she liked it. Mrs. Patmore had arrived at Downton nearly a year ago, and Elsie liked her a lot, despite her rather…colorful…way of expressing herself.

"Why thank you, Mrs. Patmore, I certainly need this today. I trust you have everything under control here. I'll be in my sitting room until supper is served," she walked into the hallway and nearly crashed into a young lad with a letter in his hand.

"You'll be Mrs. Hughes, then?"

"Yes, m'boy. Is that for me?"

"'Tis. Express delivery," he handed it over to her, waiting expectantly.

"Here you are," she tossed him a coin, which he caught expertly. "Go grab a slice of bread and jam, while you're at it."

"Yes, ma'am, thank you, ma'am."

 _Express delivery._ She looked down. From an unfamiliar address in York. She didn't know too many folks in York who might be – then a thought occurred to her.

"No, please not," she whispered, a lump jumping into her throat. "Not today, of all days." She kept staring at the envelope in her hand, willing herself to open it, but couldn't muster the courage. Her vision was shimmering with unshed tears.

"Mrs. Hughes, do you plan on sending every urchin and orphan into my kitchen for – good heavens, you look like a light breeze could knock you down," Mrs. Patmore's strong hand steadied Elsie at the elbow, steering her into her sitting room. "Sit, sit!" Her tea and letter were taken gently from her hands, and she was pushed down onto the nearest chair. "Now, tell me what it is."

"Someone has died, I believe."

"You mean, aside from Lord Grantham?"

"Yes, someone far more important, Mrs. Patmore," Elsie took the letter, opened it decisively.

 _Dear Mrs. Hughes,_

 _I regret to inform you of the passing of my aunt, Mrs. Sarah Davis…._

The letter fell from her hand, fluttering to the ground.

"More important than an Earl?"

"Yes, Mrs. Patmore. More important than an Earl. Someone who was my mentor, my teacher…and my friend." And with that, Elsie let the tears take her, covering her face with her hands, much like the new Lord Grantham had, hours before.

oooOOOooo

The day felt as if it would never end, but here he was. He had spent every second since the wee hours of the morning upstairs, and now, at last, he was able to retire. He walked past the kitchen, thinking of nothing more than the chair and a glass of port in his study.

"Ah, Mr. Carson?" The short, red-haired cook was standing in the kitchen doorway.

"Yes, Mrs. Patmore?"

"I held this aside for you, sir. I figured you must have worked up an appetite today, looking after all of them above," she handed him a plate covered with a cloth napkin.

"That's quite thoughtful of you, Mrs. Patmore. I hadn't thought much about eating today, truth be told," he turned from her, now even more anxious to get to the haven of his office.

"Mrs. Carson, if I may? Mrs. Hughes had some rather bad news earlier. She bucked herself up and carried on, as you would expect her to, but she was rather shaken, sir."

"What sort of bad news?"

"Well, it's not my news to share now, is it? But you may want to look in on her, I expect."

"Indeed. Thank you, Mrs. Patmore, for everything."

He walked out of the kitchen and into the hallway. Elsie Hughes was already standing in the doorway of her sitting room. She appeared calm to him, but her face was so still. The animation he was used to seeing was completely absent.

"Mr. Carson, I'm afraid I've bad news," her voice was barely above a whisper. "Please come in." She took his plate, set it at her small side table. There were already two glasses of wine waiting. He sat across from her, silent. It bothered him more than he would have thought to see her this way.

"The thing is, Mr. Carson, it's shared bad news, for both you and I," Mrs. Hughes took a deep breath. She seemed unable to look at him. "Mrs. Davis…has died."

He jumped to his feet, backed away a little, as if he could escape the terrible news. Lord Grantham's death had hit him hard this morning. His head had been spinning nonstop, and action seemed to be the only answer. But this. Mrs. Davis. He felt this death lower, right in the center of his chest. A heaviness. No wonder Mrs. Hughes was so still. He was rooted to the spot, drenched in sorrow.

"Please, please sit, it's a terrible shock, after a terribly shocking day," Mrs. Hughes' voice seemed to be swimming towards him, from very far away. He was suddenly aware of light pressure on his arm. Mrs. Hughes, gently pushing him down into his chair.

"I've spoken to Lady Cora about it and she's given the go ahead, though she cannot bring herself to impart additional bad news to Lord Robert or Lady Violet," her voice was gentle, calm. "We'll…we'll have to wait a short time for the late Lord Grantham's…remains…to arrive at Downton, before we can hold a service. They are expecting the service to be in four days, so this Saturday. Mrs. Davis' funeral is Friday morning; we can take one of the two early trains to York, and be back before dinnertime. I know there'll be extra work, with Lord Grantham's funeral the next day, but Mrs. Patmore and the senior staff are fully capable of –"

He at last registered what she was saying: that they, the housekeeper and butler of Downton, should spend the entire day prior to the Lord's funeral away from the house.

"That's not possible," he breathed. Everything still felt oh so heavy, but his head was clearing. "We cannot leave the house the day before the Earl is buried. It's entirely disrespectful. Our duty is here." The words comforted him. Thinking about Mrs. Davis, her kindness, the years of drinks and conversations shared, made everything tilt sideways. Best not to even contemplate it. "Besides, Miss Sybil's Christening is this Sunday. We are needed here now more than ever."

"It's been postponed to two weeks Sunday," Mrs. Hughes' face remained very still, but there was a set line to her mouth now. "And _I_ find it entirely possible to take the trip to York to remember our dear friend, so you will have to make do without me on Friday, Mr. Carson."

She clearly didn't want him there. He rose, every part of him aching in some way: heart, mind and body.

"Mrs. Hughes, I only want to do what I feel is right."

"As do I, Mr. Carson, as do I."

oooOOOooo

Elsie stood at the graveside of Sarah Davis, with a small knot of friends and family, including Elinor Driscoll, the former head cook at Downton, who had moved to a smaller but better-suited household nearby.

"I would see her from time to time, you know," Mrs. Driscoll, wiping tears away, as the little crowd dispersed as a light rain began falling. "We'd meet for tea on my half day, once a month or so. She seemed very happy, very relaxed, living her with her niece. It was almost as if…she were a different person. She even asked me to call her 'Sarah' not that I could manage it after calling her formally for nearly fifteen years."

"She was a special person," Elise replied simply. "We only worked together for a short while, but I think about her almost every day when I am at Downton. It's…it's as if…I want to make sure I'm _worthy_ of the trust she put in me." Her voice broke a little, and she dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.

"She _was_ special. As are you, Mrs. Hughes. She saw summat in you, sure enough. You're one of the things I miss about Downton, truly," Mrs. Driscoll squeezed her arm. "I must be off. The family gave me until suppertime, so I have to hurry back."

Elsie stood at the burial site alone for a few moments. The rain was falling, but it was a gentle rain. A spring rain, full of hope, with the promise of tulips and a big Easter dinner in a few weeks. She thought of the twenty or so people that had been here to see Sarah Davis to rest. Not a grand group, not the numbers she deserved, but each person had shared memories of her with the others. It was a true celebration of a life well-lived.

She smiled a little through her tears, and bent carefully to place a small posy of primroses and violets on the fresh earth.

"She loved violets," a deep voice behind her startled her into a yelp. She was lucky she didn't tumble over. She look up, still crouching, and saw Mr. Carson standing there, his bowler hat shining with rain and his own, slightly larger bouquet. "And that wasn't just loyalty to the Countess." He proffered his hand and she accepted, aware of its warmth, even through both of their gloves.

"I was wrong, Mrs. Hughes," he gazed down at her, still lightly holding her hand. "I was wrong, and that's hard for me to say. I suppose…I didn't want to face saying good-bye." He let go, and his face crumpled a little. He knelt down and placed his flowers next to hers. He stayed there for a moment too long and she realized he was sobbing quietly.

She said nothing, but gently placed her hand on his back. They remained there, saying a silent good-bye to the woman who, somehow, knew they needed each other.


	8. Auld Lang Zyne - Uile Aon

New Year's Eve, 1899

 _A new century,_ Charles Carson thought to himself. The idea terrified him. Time, and the world, seemed to be speeding up. Word from London and the broader world trickled back to Downton, via the papers and the Granthams, but it was easy to pretend time was standing still, if you really wanted to.

Until, that was, he saw Misses Mary, Edith and Sybil run into the great hall towards the towering, bedecked Christmas tree, as beautiful as it was a week ago, passing entering guests as they were announced. How was it that Miss Mary was already edging towards being a young lady, refined and stylish at eight years old? She stood among the Lord and Lady Grantham's guests as if she belonged there.

"Happy turn of the century, Mr. Carson," she stopped before him, and held out her hand. She smiled sweetly up at him, the pretty but sharp lines of her face softened.

"And to you, Miss Mary," he took one smooth, small white hand between two of his own, and bent to kiss it. He was rewarded with a tiny peck on the cheek, and a whisper: "No one knows as much as you do, Mr. Carson, not even Papa."

"Now, now, we know that simply isn't true. You're just practicing your flattery on me," he was pleased beyond reason, despite his dismissive words. He was rewarded with one arched eyebrow and a delicate wave of a hand and she moved to join her parents, greeting guests as she went with the poise of a girl twice her age.

"What's your secret with that little Miss?" Mrs. Hughes, at his elbow.

"There's no secret, Mrs. Hughes. It's easy to get along with such a genteel and lovely girl as Miss Mary," he caught her rolling her eyes, and frowned mightily.

"I wouldn't be sayin' that in front of Miss Edith. She might put forth a convincing argument in opposition to that theory."

"Mrs. Hughes, I really don't think that –"

"Never mind now, we shan't be arguing as a new century unfolds before us. And in Miss Mary's favor, she thinks well of you, so I suppose I can pardon her fancy airs," her eyes were sparkling with laughter and good-natured teasing.

"Very well, Mrs. Hughes, a truce between us, then," he responded in a mollified tone. He was still trying to decide which compliment meant more to him: Miss Mary's or Mrs. Hughes. He decides to enjoy them both equally. He was then taken off guard by a small, soft object running into his legs at full-tilt.

"Carson! Carson!" Miss Sybil, three years old, at his knee in a red velvet dress, her dark hair pulled away from her sweet baby's face. "Up, up, please! You have the best ups!"

Mrs. Hughes was looking down at the girl, grinning ear to ear, as were a few of the guests. There was something about Miss Sybil that warmed even the coldest heart.

"Well, Carson? I see you have quite the little taskmaster over there!" Lord Robert called out from across the hall. He cut quite a figure in his regimental dress uniform. He was headed to South Africa, to fight the Boers, soon after the New Year.

"Indeed, m'lord," he called back. "So, Miss Sybil, up you will go." And he reached down and swung the toddler high above his head, much to her delight. He sat her atop his shoulder, where she waved to the small crowd now gathered around them. He caught sight of Mrs. Hughes, looking up at the girl with sheer delight. Something in her face made him hand the child to her.

"Bonny wee lass," Mrs. Hughes bounced Miss Sybil on her arm. He thought he notices a flash of sadness on her face, but then it was gone, as if it had never been

"Mrs. Huuuuuuggggghheesss!" And she gave the lady in question a hearty pat on the cheek. The knot of party-goers roared with laughter. The Countess, all regal beauty and poise, made her way over.

"I do believe it's time for the girls to retire," she looked at her youngest and gave her a broad grin. "Come along, Sybil, my love."

"Mamaaaaa!"

He and Mrs. Hughes watched the girls' exit with Nanny, then glanced at each other.

"That's our cue," Mrs. Hughes said to him.

"Time to ring in the New Year, in style," he replied. Was any other way worthwhile?

oooOOOooo

The staff spent the next few hours pouring endless glasses of champagne, passing small, delicious bites of food, which were devoured as quickly as Mrs. Patmore and her team could assemble them, and generally creating magic for the party-goers above.

Mrs. Hughes kept an eye on the comings and goings from the open doorway of her office, thinking of Miss Sybil laughing in her arms. She realized many people, seeing a spinster in her thirties, in service, cradling a wee _bairn_ might come to the conclusion that she was mourning the loss of a family of her own.

But Miss Sybil didn't tug at her would-have-been mother's heart. What Elise saw when she looked at Sybil was Becky, or a Becky that might have been. Becky, who was a late-in-life baby to Mam, over a decade younger than Elsie. Holding Sybil, Elsie was forcibly reminded of herself, as a skinny stick of a girl, holding Becky the same way. The same round cheeks and slightly curling dark hair. The same sunny smile and shrieks of delight at her older sister's face.

And that's where the similarities ended. Whereas Miss Sybil's eyes were bright and sharp, taking in all of the faces and sights at the party, Becky's would often fix on a spot in the mid-distance, one eye listing slightly inward. There was a name for what Becky had, something that was pure bad luck, if you believed in that sort of thing, and called after some smart doctor working up in Surrey who had figured it out. Not how to fix it, because it wasn't something you could fix. Just…what it was. _Dr. Down, that's it._ But, whatever you called it, Becky was Becky. Her sister. And as the old century switched places with the new, she would become Elsie's responsibility. Always.

oooOOOooo

"That's them, done for!" Iain, the third footman's, rowdy whoop as he thundered down the stairs roused everyone downstairs, from the kitchen maids finishing up the tidying to the ladies' maids patiently mending collars and polishing necklaces until the unofficial bell had sounded.

"And look what m'lord's sent down!" Iain, followed closely by the other footmen and three housemaids held half a dozen bottles aloft in his hands. Mrs. Hughes watched, bemused, debating on whether or not to hush him. However, the newish, younger Lord Grantham had begun a tradition of giving all but essential staff off in the half-day between eleven thirty, New Year's Eve, and eleven thirty, New Year's Morning (the poor souls who had to rise at dawn on New Year's Day ended theirs once everyone else began). There would be several sore heads, she reckoned, come suppertime tomorrow, but really, was that such a price to pay?

The servants' dining hall was filled to overflowing with revelers. Mr. Carson waded his way through, towards her, a grim expression on his face.

"In my day as a footman, that sort of ruckus would have been cause for a stern talking-to."

"Now, really, Mr. Carson, must we hold on to _everything_ from back in 'your day'"? Look 'round you! It's almost the year of our Lord, 1900! That's something to be excited about!"

Two glasses of bubbling champagne were pushed into her hands by Mrs. Patmore, and she turned and thrust one into Mr. Carson's hand.

"Come now, Mr. Carson. We must face the new century bravely!"

"To be honest, Mrs. Hughes, the new century frightens me a little," she noticed his cheek flushed slightly. Or maybe he was just overheated. It was quiet warm, with all of them packed in tightly.

"Okay, then! Nearly there!" An unidentified voice rang out. "Everyone ready?"

"Ten! Nine! Eight! Seven! Six! Five! Four! Three! Two! ONE! HAPPY NEW YEAR!" And Elsie was patted and hugged and as everyone turned to each other, and whistled and called to those they couldn't reach in the crowd.

"HAPPY NEW CENTURY, MORE LIKE!" Another voice rang out, and some of the revelers began banging pots, laughing and happy.

She turned to Mr. Carson. "Welcome to the twentieth century, then." And before she thought to hard about it, she placed a quick, chaste kiss on his cheek.

"It's looking up already, Mrs. Hughes."

He surprised her, which was difficult when you'd known someone for over a decade. Before she could respond, Iain was calling out:

"What say you, Mrs. Hughes? Time to lead a round or two!"

"I suppose, then, if I must. But everyone must join in, now."

 _"Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to miiiiind, should auld acquaintance be forgot, and auld lang zyne…."_


	9. A Day Like Any Other

**A/N: Okay, okay, okay. First off, you all are some of the best readers and reviews a gal could ask for. So I thank you a thousand times over. Secondly, I need to shout out to amelia-cordelia for pointing out my CHARACTER TAGS WERE OFF. Wah wah. I thought I had done the tags, but now it's all fixed and correct. And thirdly, as an author, I am not sure I am supposed to play favorites with my chapters, but this one is my fave, so far I think. I had such a great time writing it. Thanks for taking this journey down memory lane with me! ~CeeCee**

Late Spring, 1902

Elsie arrived on the overnight train from Lytham St. Annes and reached Downton as the sun came up. She had the coach let her in through the back, attempting to avoid running into Mr. Carson. He would be able to see how pure worn out she was, and she wasn't in a mind to have someone examine her sore spots. Not today. _It's just a day, like any other,_ she thought, and was shrugging her coat off even as she walked towards her sitting room. In many ways, it was good to be back home. Because, yes, for good or ill, Downton was home. She knew her footing here, which is what she needed. The comfort of the well-known.

"Good morning, Mrs. Hughes! Welcome home," Elsie turned to see Anna Smith, the new housemaid, walking towards her, a smile on her pretty face, her blue eyes warm and welcoming. _She's a good sort, Anna._ She had interviewed her via mail and in person before she had to leave Downton for several days, and the girl had started in her absence.

"Hello, Anna. I expect Lucy has been showing you how things are done at Downton? I was sorry to miss you coming on, but it was unavoidable."

"Certainly, Mrs. Hughes. It's been a whirlwind, I'll say, but I do believe I am catching on. I will do you proud. Shall I let Mrs. Patmore know you are back? She can bring you tea and breakfast to your sitting room. Might be less hectic than the servants' hall breakfast," Anna grinned a little at her. _Never mistake sweetness for stupidity,_ Elsie thought. There was more to this young woman than a sunny, calm personality. She understood people, even at a young age.

"That's very good of you, Anna. Yes, please have her send something in."

"You're welcome, Mrs. Hughes," she paused. "I'm sorry about your mum." And then she hurried away, to fetch her boss some breakfast.

She turned to go into her sitting room and heard a deep nasal tone behind her.

"Ah, Mrs. Hughes, ye've returned at long last," Sarah O'Brien, her ladyship's maid. "I was wondering if I might have a word about the quantity, or lack thereof, of mending and finishing supplies, in the stores here. Of course, I keep my own bag kitted out, but sometimes I need a bit of extra, lace or buttons or some notion, that I don't keep personally stocked."

"Indeed, Miss O'Brien, and I am sure we can work something out. Please stop by when they've all gone up to dinner this evening and we can sort through the details."

"But, Mrs. Hughes, I really feel that –"

" _Carry on,_ Miss O'Brien. You'll have my ear at the end of the day. That's my final word on it." And she shut the door in the blasted woman's face. No one was denying she was a fine lady's maid, and despite her general sourness, she was very devoted to Lady Cora, and the Countess to her. _There's no accounting for taste,_ Elsie decided, setting her bags aside and hanging up her coat. She mused on Mr. Carson's adoration of Miss Mary, who became more imperious each day. She'd be insufferable by the time she reached sixteen.

 _Best to focus on people's good qualities, Elsie,_ she could hear Mam saying. _And still, don't be taken in by them._ And then she'd laugh, as if she solved one of the great mysteries of life. Perhaps she had.

"You were wiser than you knew, Mam," she whispered, and for the first time this week, the thought of her mother made her smile, rather than form a lump in her throat.

There was a knock at the door. That'd be one of the kitchen girls with her solo breakfast.

"Come in!"

"Mrs. Patmore said this was for you, so I thought I'd save Polly the trip," Mr. Carson stood in the doorway, and she realized she'd been wrong, at least in part: seeing him _did_ make her feel very exposed, but it also made her feel very…at ease. Almost happy.

"Mr. Carson! Personal service, and everything. Have things changed that much in five days?" She decided the safest approach for her right now was their friendly bantering.

"It was a very long five days without you, Mrs. Hughes," he said solemnly. "I hope…I hope all went smoothly and your family is doing as well as can be expected in these circumstances." He set the tray down, and she thought of Becky, secured in the lovely home for the simple-minded, chasing after sea birds on the pebbly sands of the pretty shore town Elsie had discovered for her, like a child of six rather than a woman of twenty-eight.

 _"She'll be happy here, I believe", the kind-faced nurse who was charged with her sister said to Elsie._

 _"Becky's always happy, Miss," Elsie responded. "But I know you'll look after her, and care for her as she should be. That's what's important."_

 _"Yes, Mrs. Hughes," the nurse placed her hand on Elsie's arm. "We are taught the value of all people as part of our training, and we will value your sister. Never you worry, please. God cares for even the smallest sparrow, as we have all been taught."_

 _They had both turned back to Becky, dark hair dancing around her face in the sea breeze, feet dark with sand. And smiled at each other. Her sister was going to be fine, and that's all that mattered._

"Yes, it did. It was very kind of the Crawleys to cover the cost of our funeral luncheon," She poured herself some tea.

"Indeed, they are the very definition of generosity," he appeared a bit uncomfortable, and she realized with a start that, yes the Crawleys _were_ very generous, she could not say otherwise, but that the idea had been _his_. Her heart softened even more, and she blinked back tears. "Won't you join me?"

"Well, just for a minute. Breakfast is about to be served down the hall, and lest a revolution be planned in our absence, I must oversee it," he sat across from her. "Anna seems like a very good sort of girl. I was concerned about her beginning in your absence, but it was absolutely no matter at all. Lucy said she's efficient, calm and respectful, a hard worker, and more composed than most girls her age. Rather likeable, really, in contrast to some of the other staff members…" he trailed off and she looked at him above her teacup.

"Did Miss O'Brien corner you as well this morning?" And she couldn't help it, she burst out laughing.

He raised an eyebrow, grinned at her. "She is like a pointer on the trail of a scent. And if you repeat that, Mrs. Hughes, I will deny it until the end of my days."

Elsie was really laughing now. "She's a menace, sometimes, that woman. A rather fine lady's maid, I will give her that, and her ladyship is genuinely fond of her, but the sound of her voice rather sends me running."

"She was going on about bows and buttons and lace, Mrs. Hughes. I felt like I was at a bazaar in Marrakech, being heckled into purchasing something I've no need of."

Elsie wiped tears of indeterminate emotion from her cheeks, still chuckling. "And that, Mr. Carson, must be the end of the discussion, wouldn't you say? I'll handle Miss O'Brien later today, when I am a bit more fortified."

There was a sharp rap at the door, and Iain popped his head round the jamb. "Ah, Mr. Carson, I thought I heard you in here. Welcome back, Mrs. Hughes, it's good to have you back. Mr. Carson, might I speak to you for a moment? I need your advice about a small matter his lordship asked me to handle for him."

"Of course, we'll leave Mrs. Hughes to clear the cobwebs of travel," he rose, started to follow the younger man out the door.

"A day like any other, at Downton," Elsie said to him, and it felt better this time.

Mr. Carson paused. "That reminds me – I hope you'll be joining me for our evening tipple tonight?"

"Wouldn't miss it, Mr. Carson."

oooOOOooo

Carson looked down at his desk, which he had mostly cleared of its daily clutter. The table now contained a small plate of fruit, cheese and petit fours, flanked by two glasses of a very fine Bordeaux, from a bottle taken from the cellar with Lord Grantham's blessing. A small, wrapped gift sat to one side.

He had missed Mrs. Hughes this week more than he had expected. He could admit that to himself, at least, though he would never say it out loud. He'd felt a bit…rudderless…without her to balance him. She'd never been gone from Downton for so long before. And he was heartened she had returned, today of all days.

 _A day like any other,_ she had said to him this morning, but he knew better. He'd never marked it before, for some reason, but felt moved to do so this year. It felt…appropriate.

Her distinctive knock rang out and the door swung open.

"What's all this?" She stood stock-still, looking truly shocked.

"Do come in," he said, suddenly a little nervous. What if she resented the fuss? Ladies didn't always wanted to be reminded of their age, though, in his mind, Mrs. Hughes was still quite young. She had a certain…vitality about her. Right now, she looked like a child, dumbstruck by gifts under the tree on Christmas morning. She had one hand over her heart.

"Mr. Carson…why…I…that is…I never..."

"It is a very rare occurrence when you are speechless, so I choose to interpret your near-silence as approval." And he could see, she was not upset, or embarrassed. Surprised, yes, but that was quite alright.

A small smile crept onto her face as she sat down. "Well, now, Mr. Carson, you really did pull out all of the stops." She still sounded a little breathless.

"Happy birthday, Mrs. Hughes," he joined her at the desk, handing her the glass of Bordeaux.

She took a small sip. "This is delightful!"

"From the cellars, on Lord Grantham's approval. I have the taste, but not the purse, for this particular vintage," he smiled at her. "Did Miss O'Brien get all of the contraband she was after this morning?"

She chuckled, bite into a petit four. "You would think, to hear her, that she was outfitting dozen ladies to be presented this Season, rather than just her ladyship. But we got there in the end," she rolled her eyes, then leaned back.

"This was quite nice of you, Mr. Carson. I do appreciate it," she smiled openly at him. "I…I very much appreciate our friendship." Her cheeks flushed slightly pink, and he felt his too. In nearly fifteen years, neither of them had ever said anything so bald before, so simply stated. So truthful.

He held her gaze for a moment. "As do I, Mrs. Hughes. More than I realized, I think." As the moment stretched, he wondered if he had more to say. There may have been other things, other sentiments, somewhere deep in his heart, but his mind pushed them away. Better to savor this moment, the purity of it.

She broke the silence by lifting the small wrapped package on the desk. "What's this now? You never bought me a gift?" They exchanged small tokens at the holidays, as did many of the staff, but this felt more personal. Because it _was_ more personal. He had chosen this present quite carefully for her.

"Open it, then." He steepled his fingers. He was certain this gift would bring a smile to her face.

"Why, how on Earth did you…" she was gazing down at the gift. A book. _The Hound of the Baskervilles,_ the third novel chronicling the crime-solving of Sherlock Holmes, written by Arthur Conan Doyle. She looked from the book to him several times. "I was reading this last year, when they serialized it in _The Strand,_ but –"

"But you missed several issues, including the last installment," he interjected, hoping she would forgive his rudeness, which was due solely to enthusiasm.

"Yes, that's exactly it. I muddled my way through, piecing it together at first, but then I gave up. Especially since I missed the ending." She shrugged, then grinned, and looked back at him again. His heart swelled knowing he had put that smile on her face.

"I…I took the liberty to put an inscription in the front page, if you care to look."

She opened, and read aloud, "'To E. Hughes – I gift you the gift of the whole story, which is something we rarely get in life. Warmly, C. Carson.'" She closed the book, put both hands atop it. She took a deep breath, and looked back up at him. There were tears shining in her eyes.

"Mrs. Hughes, I really hope that I didn't –"

"Quiet now, you hear? I want to say this. You paid attention, Mr. Carson. You minded me in a way that no one has since I was a wee one at me Mam's knee, God rest her," one lone tear ran down her cheek. "I'm so used to minding everyone else, all the time, I never stopped to realize, _you were minding me._ You saw something I was missing that could bring me a little happiness, and you found it for me. It's quite a feeling to know someone is paying attention. Makes me feel more _here,_ if you can understand me," she whisked away the stray tear on her cheek, and renewed her smile at him. "And now, I can fill in all of the blanks, and see what happens at the end." She reached out and placed her bare hand on his.

His stomach leaped up and rolled in a not-so-unpleasant way, a way that it hadn't in nearly half a lifetime. He cleared his throat.

"You'll have to tell me if it has a satisfying conclusion," he tried to gather himself before she noticed something amiss.

"We'll just have to wait and see, won't we?"


	10. Extended Stay

Winter, 1907

Elsie hurried down to the drawing room. She'd been summoned by her ladyship during tea time, which was somewhat unusual. She was therefore expecting a somewhat unusual request. She smoothed her skirts and her hair and entered the room. Glanced over at Mr. Carson, presiding in the corner. He raised his eyebrow at her but gave nothing else away.

"Good afternoon, your ladyship," she greeted the Countess, who was sitting with Misses Mary and Edith. Miss Sybil would still be with the governess, at lessons.

The two present Crawley sisters could not cut more different figures, in temperament and appearance. At sixteen, Miss Mary was truly beautiful – graceful and lithe, full of style. She was something to behold, if you failed to take in the aloofness bordering on iciness, or the confidence that bled into snobbery, even cruelty, if left unchecked. At the moment she was slightly turned away from her mother, looking rather bored. Miss Edith, on the other hand, was wearing her teen years slightly less comfortably. She favored the Crawleys, rather than the Countess, with her strawberry blond hair and harsher features.

Elsie harkened back to Lady Rosamund when she herself had first arrived at Downton. Thought she had been slightly older than Miss Edith was now, Lady Rosamund, too, had taken time to grown into herself, and was now quiet a handsome woman. And right now, Miss Edith had a hopeful smile on her face, and color in her cheeks, in contrast to her sister's indifference.

"Mrs. Hughes! Wonderful, thank you for coming up at such an unexpected time," Lady Cora smiled up at her, still radiating the loveliness and steadiness she had when she first arrived at Downton as a young bride, but with far more gravitas. Elsie admired her. She knew that Lord Grantham had married the American heiress for two reasons: money and beauty. But Lady Cora had more to her than those obvious assets. It was quite something to watch, over the years, how these two built a real life together. She saw the young Earl go from admiring his wife's beauty, but not being particularly attached to her, to respecting, caring, and finally falling deeply in love with her, and she him. But Elsie knew Lady Cora had loved Lord Robert long before he did her. That was sometimes the way of things. Someone often needed to catch up, in her observations.

"I was hoping you and I could figure out a solution to set Sir James and Mr. Patrick up for a long-term visit this winter at Downton. I know they usually leave soon after the holidays, but, given that they are such close family, and the young people _so_ enjoy each other's company –" at this, there was a monumental eye-roll and sigh from Miss Mary's direction, which earned her a burning stare from her mother "-we felt that we should all really get to know each other better. They'll travel with us to London for the Season in April, so I am imagining something to make them comfortable for several months."

"Yes, of course, m'lady, I don't see that being too much of a problem aside from determining the basic logistics and –"

Miss Mary's withering tones cut through the conversation. "Mama, I don't see why they can't simply stay at Crawley House. They'd be quite comfortable there and could join us for meals at their own discretion -"

Lady Cora stood, placing herself between Mrs. Hughes and her daughter. "What Miss Mary is saying, Mrs. Hughes, is that we want to ensure that the gentlemen have enough room to retire and feel comfortable, to stretch their legs, so to speak. There is, of course, no question of them staying anywhere but Downton." The last sentence was frosty and everyone in the room knew it was directed at Miss Mary.

"I think it's delightful that Cousins James and Patrick are staying. I am interested in getting to know both of them better, I feel as if it's been too long since Patrick was last here, when we children, really" Miss Edith interjected, and Elsie saw her cheeks go pinker.

"You and I have _very_ different ideas of 'delightful,'" Mary shot back at her sister.

"I believe we do," Edith replied tensely.

Elsie caught the Countess' eye. "Your ladyship, I will take all of this into account and return to you with everything determined at a time that's most convenient for you. I know we can make the gentleman as happy and comfortable as if they were in their own home." She realized her mistake the moment it was out of her mouth.

"Oh, honestly!" Mary exclaimed, got up, and exited the room. Everyone else froze for a moment. Mrs. Hughes heard Mr. Carson sigh behind her.

"Edith," the Countess' face was still and calm, a trace of a smile lingering. She was still looking at Mrs. Hughes. "Please go fetch your sister and tell her to return _at once._ "

"If her ladyship doesn't object, I would be happy to see to Miss Mary's return to the drawing room," Carson rumbled from his post.

"Very well, Carson. Thank you. You may have more luck that her sister or I have in convincing her of anything, including doing the right thing," a brief flash of annoyance crossed the Countess' face, then was gone, as Carson went in search of her eldest daughter.

"I am going to find Cousins James and Patrick, tell them we've it all planned out for them," Edith said, and the Countess let her go. Once they were alone, Elsie took a deep breath.

"Your ladyship, I apologize for speaking out of turn. Please understand I meant nothing by it, and I would be very sorry indeed if I offended you, or Miss Mary, in any way."

"Nor have you, Mrs. Hughes. And you said nothing that could be construed as anything but considerate to our dear family members and guests," she took a deep breath, walked towards the tea table and poured herself a fresh cup. Without facing Mrs. Hughes, she continued. "As a woman with two daughters about to be presented and the last not too far behind, I've faced the truth for some time now. Mary, well, she will just have to catch up. And there's nothing more to be said about it."

She turned back to Mrs. Hughes, and her still, lovely face showed no signs of remorse, regret or embarrassment that she had failed to produce a Grantham heir. "Now, I expect you'll be able to hash out the details and have a plan for me by tomorrow morning? We can meet after breakfast."

"Indeed, your ladyship. It will be handled completely."

oooOOOooo

Carson left the drawing room and headed for the front door. Some young ladies in a state of upset would seek refuge in their quarters; Mary Crawley was _not_ some young ladies. He saw her in the front drive, maybe fifty feet in front of him. She was heading towards the place she best found solace: the stables.

"Don't bother, Edith, I know Mama sent you, but you can sort out a polite way to tell her to stuff it," Mary called over her shoulder, responding to Carson's footsteps crunching behind her, as his longer legs made up the distance between them.

"Well, m'lady, I don't believe it would be appropriate for me to address the Countess in that manner," Carson responded, and Mary gasped, spun around. "I, nor anyone else." His voice was kind but firm. He knew Elsie Hughes thought he was unreasonably blind to Mary's foibles, and he certainly admired her. But disrespect for Lady Grantham, even second-hand and by the daughter of the house, was wholly unacceptable.

"Carson!" Mary finally spluttered. "I wasn't expecting you." She recovered quickly, as she always did. "Really, Mama was wise, sending you rather than Edith. At least you have some sense."

He raised one eyebrow at her, silently chiding her for mocking her sister. It wasn't quite the same as taking a (rather vulgar) swipe at her ladyship, but still out of line. She stood smoothing her hair back, feigning indifference to his scolding.

"I'm off to the stables, then," she turned and began walking. "If you'd be so kind to let them know I'll be back to dress for dinner."

"Miss Mary." He kept his voice calm, gentle. "Please."

She stopped, and suddenly her shoulders slumped. She turned back to him, and everything that had been hard in her face was soft. She wasn't crying, nor did he expect she would, but she seemed very exposed suddenly.

" _You_ know what they want, Carson. They want me to marry Patrick. They want me to do what Mama couldn't – make an heir."

"And would that be so terrible?"

"Yes, it would. This is not about Patrick, he's a fine enough fellow. Though not someone you'd be inclined to fall in love with, unless you were Edith, of course. Fine enough, and dull enough. It's more than that, in any case," she looked up away, then back at him. She looked afraid. "They want to trap me, Carson. This life's a trap. A lady's life, it's a trap, laid with beautiful dresses and fine jewelry, but in the end it's boredom that will kill you."

"You don't really believe that, Miss Mary."

"I do. I do," she gathered herself. "But they don't know everything. I have plans, Carson, and they likely won't include Cousin Patrick. Though I suppose I could go along with it for now. What they don't know won't hurt them." She was utterly composed again, as if the scared creature worried about being trapped was simply a figment of his imagination.

"Well, if you'd be so kind to escort me back to the house. I suppose I will have to start my round of apologies. And do pass one on to Mrs. Hughes for me, I know she meant no harm in what she said."

"Indeed she did not, m'lady."

"You know, Carson, you really aren't supposed to call me that until I've been presented in the spring," she offered him a small smile.

"I suppose not, technically, but you seem to have discovered earlier than most what it takes to be a lady…m'lady."

"My, my, Carson, you're nearly as fine a flatter as I am."

"Not nearly so, m'lady. Not nearly so."

oooOOOooo

Elsie Hughes was bemused. Mr. Carson was relaying Miss Mary's apology to her, which she begrudgingly admitted was good of her. Despite her general dislike of the girl, she was willing to appreciate she'd been upset and she, Elsie, hadn't helped with her less than tactful phrasing.

"I guess it means that they've given up, lord and ladyship, of having a boy," she sipped her wine thoughtfully.

"That's really none of our business, Mrs. Hughes."

"Oh, pssht, don't you play none of that nonsense with me behind closed doors. You forget to whom you're talking, Mr. Carson."

"Very well, Mrs. Hughes," his eyebrow went up, but he was smiling a little. "It does seem that they are accepting that Sir James, and later Mr. Patrick, will be the heir to all."

"And they want Miss Mary to seal the deal before there can be any other comers to the prize."

"You _are_ in rare form tonight, Mrs. Hughes."

"Not so rare these days, Mr. Carson. I keep finding more pieces of my mind to speak, that's what it is." Recently, she began delighting in teasing him. Something happened, in the past year or so, where certain things, that had once felt weighted between them, had simply become second nature for her. And for all his faux indignation, she was well aware he valued her cheek.

"Keep it up, and I'll cut you off," he moved the bottle out of her reach. She laughed. _Ah, yes, how easy this is._

"I know you won't believe me, Mr. Carson, but I don't despise Miss Mary. Not at all. On the contrary, there's much to admire about her, excepting how she acts when she's cornered: like a cat in a trap, all claws and barbs."

He started when she echoed the word that Mary had used earlier.

"Trapped," he said out loud. "She said that earlier today…she feels trapped. How did you know, Mrs. Hughes?"

"Because I'm a woman, you silly fool. All women are trapped, to a degree."

"Mmm, I am not sure I like where this conversation's going."

"Well, no of course you don't. As much as you adore young m'lady upstairs, _I'll_ always understand a little bit more about her, because we are both women."

"Do you feel trapped, Mrs. Hughes?" He seemed flabbergasted.

She grew serious thinking of Becky and how, as long as her sister lived, she would have to work. She had never told him about Becky, and now, it seemed almost too late.

"A bit. We all have obligations, Mr. Carson, man or woman. But, I am freer than Miss Mary is, in many ways. I chose this life, a life of service. I could have…I could have made other choices. The rise and fall of an English dynasty doesn't rest on my head. My life is…flexible…in a way that hers is not. For example, no one would ever be able to convince or cajole me into marry a man I didn't love, for the greater good, as it were." She grinned at him.

"I suppose any man marrying you, Mrs. Hughes, would be the recipient of the greater good," he grinned a little, and she laughed.

"Flatterer," she waved her hand. It all felt so safe, because what could happen? They were still in certain traps of their own, whether they admitted it or not, and they may as well enjoy themselves.

"Top her off, Mr. Carson."

"Yes, why not, Mrs. Hughes?"


	11. Home

**A/N: Hi lovely, wonderful readers! Thank you, so much, for your detailed, thoughtful reviews. I've had so much fun writing this fic and exploring these characters. So…this is the last pre-canon chapter. After this, I'll take the jump to 1912 and have to review Chelsie, Carson and Hughes-inclusive scenes, which will sound like something like this in my house:**

 **Me (feverishly rewatching every detail and second of every Chelsie scene, FF'ing through the rest).**

 **Husband: "What are you doing?"**

 **Me: "Watching Downton Abbey."**

 **H: "Ummm. You literally just fastforwarded through basically the entire episode WHY ARE YOU SKIPPING MAGGIE SMITH WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?"**

 **Me: "I am writing my fanfiction, you know how I am about canon."**

 **H: "You've watched that one-minute scene eleven times."**

 **Me: "You're right; I'll watch it again."**

 **H: "You are completely insane."**

 **A/N, #2: THOUGHTFUL OPINIONS DESIRED: So, generally I feel that these characters and the writing for them is consistent and fabulous (in contrast to my other 'ship, which is on The Walking Dead, and is written very unevenly.) HOWEVER, there's one things I can't quite reconcile as being character-driven, because, well, we all know it's not: WHY DIDN'T SHE, IN OVER THIRTY-FIVE YEARS, TELL HIM ABOUT HER SISTER? The answer, of course, was Fellowes struggling to come up with an admirable, in-character reason for why she wouldn't have retirement money (and thus giving Carson the impetus to propose, which he's wanted to do), and he suddenly remembered giving her a sister in the first season (like the rando kitchen help would know about Becky but Carson wouldn't). BUT I NEED REASONS. And I think I have a decent idea, though it isn't very flattering to Carson in the moment. Would you guys be interested in my exploring this? Or just…let it go? TIA!**

 **TL/DR: Canon storytelling starts next chapter! And also: HELP! Why doesn't Carson know about Becky aside from YOUR PLOT IS SHOWING FELLOWES? Should I attempt to explain?**

May, 1908

Deep in thought, Elsie watched the countryside roll by from her window seat on the train, feeling her muscles relax the minute the crowd of London buildings gave way to patchwork farmland, meadows and greenery. She was a country girl, and always would be, though she did enjoy the excitement and bustle of the city, albeit in small doses.

The Crawleys had requested she travel with them at the beginning of this season, which would be Lady Edith's first, as they were replacing Grantham House's housekeeper, and they needed her to fill in the gaps for a few weeks. And now, she was heading back to Downton. Back home.

One of the really lovely things about her trip to London was she had gotten to see her old friend, Margie. When Margie and Peter first left Downton, they had stayed in the village for several years, and Elsie had been able to see her friend and husband frequently, including their firstborn, Ella. But then Peter got a job with the railroad, and they packed up and headed to the city, the result being she hadn't seen her friend in nearly a dozen years. They had kept up a steady written correspondence, _but_ , Elsie thought, _it's not quite the same._

Until yesterday.

They had met in a ladies' tearoom, and the minute Elsie walked in, Margie's excited voice rang out:

"Mrs. Hughes, why I never!"

Elsie turned, and saw her friend, standing over a table set for afternoon tea, waving her over. The smile and auburn curls were the same as ever; but now, the sassy young housemaid had been replaced by a respectable, attractive, middle-aged housewife and mother of three, outfitted in a simple but stylish dress with alternating dark blue and green stripes.

Forgetting herself, she hurried over and embraced her friend, both of them tearing up unabashedly. She finally let go, wiped her eyes dry.

"Look at the two of us, acting like green girls," she smiled at her friend. "And none of that 'Mrs. Hughes' nonsense!"

"Oh, Elsie, it's been far too long! You're almost too refined for the likes of me!"

"Funny, Margie, I was just thinking the same thing."

They sat and both began talking, the words tumbling over each other in their excitement to finally be together, at long last. After two cups of tea and a scone apiece, they finally came up for air. Margie smiled at her friend, suddenly slightly bashful.

"I've a photograph of the whole family, if ye'd like to see it? 'Twas taken at Christmastime, as a gift for Peter's parents. We decided to get two taken, one for us, and one for them."

"Are ye daft? Bring it out at once!"

Elsie eagerly took the photograph her friend proffered and bend her head over it. Margie and Peter were seated on chairs slightly facing one another. Peter's crooked nose and half-smile made Elsie grin, especially given that most folks didn't smile for photographs, aside from children. Directly behind Peter was a sweet-faced girl of about nine, with a mop of hair Elise was sure contained at least hints of red. That'd be Claire. Margie looked almost regal in her formality. On her lap was her smallest, named after his father. Behind her, with one hand on her mother's shoulder, was a lovely girl just entering womanhood.

"Oh my, Margie. Ella. We don't feel the passage of time, not every day, but I certainly feel it now," she handed it back, thinking of her friend's eldest bouncing on her knee. "What a lovely family you have."

"Don't let that photograph fool you, Elsie," Margie tucked it away, grinned. "Young miss there suddenly thinks she has all of the answers for everything, and Peter's just as much of a fool as he's ever been." Despite her words, Margie radiated a great contentedness that did Elsie good to see.

And they fell deep into conversation again, whiling away the afternoon as the shadows grew long. Margie spoke with pride about Peter's job with the railroad, how he was always working his way up the ranks, and how Claire, as young as she was, had already stated she wanted to be a teacher. She admitted that little Petey had been a bit of unexpected joy, and how pleased she was to give her husband a son.

Elsie told her friend how the Crawleys hadn't had such luck, but what fair and reasonable employers and patrons to the estate they were. About the amusing sourness of Miss O'Brien, and the colorfulness of Miss Patmore's language. She spoke of her evening glasses of wine with Mr. Carson, how peaceful it was to come together with someone as an equal at the end of a day, regardless of what that day had brought. About the Crawley girls, her general dislike of Mary, pity for Edith and affection for Sybil.

"We've done well, the pair of us, haven't we, Elsie?" Margie smiled, leaned over and took her friend's hand.

"I believe we have, Margie," she gripped her friend's hand tightly, knowing that the both must leave soon, and not knowing when the next time she might see her would be.

"Might I…might I say somethin'?" Margie asked, looking slightly nervous.

"Of course, though, at this point, we may have said it all!"

"It's only that, I don't want to offend you, and I want you to understand: what I am sayin' isn't in jest or teasing; it's in earnest," Margie's eyes were wide.

"Well, now ye must be out with it. I shan't rest until you are, whether or not I _am_ offended!" Elsie was deeply curious, and suddenly her heart began to pound a little. Part of her knew what her friend was going to say, or near it. It wasn't a new thought; it was just something that had never been said out loud, by her or anyone else.

The two women's hands were still clasped upon the table. Margie looked at them, then up at Elsie, held her gaze. "When you speak of Mr. Carson, you remind me of myself – when I speak of Peter. All of it. The pride, the annoyance, the camaraderie, and mostly – the partnership, the shoring up in certain moments, and the reliance that the other will shore _you_ up, when ye be needin' it. Ye love him."

 _Ah, there it is. It's been said, not by you, but does that matter, really?_ Elsie thought. Nothing Margie had said surprised her. And it was all true. It was the biggest thing, really, in her life, so big she let it sit there, existing, as there didn't seem to be any need to change it – nor, really, any _way_ to change it. It simply was.

"I _have_ offended ye," Margie said at last.

"No, you haven't," Elsie replied. "And you're not wrong. It's hearing it, out loud, in those words. It's like someone describing your bedroom to you in great detail: you already know everything about it, all the nooks and crannies, you could find your way around in the dark. It's comfortable, and safe. But someone turns a light on, and points it all out to you, all the things ye've shoved into the corners, or under the bed. The secret things. Ah, I'm rambling at this point, but yes, Margie, I _do_. I don't really see any way 'round it."

"You two are suited, really," Margie replied. "As Peter and I are."

"Ah, but Margie, that's where the similarities end. Mr. Carson and I, we've chosen a life in service. I don't believe he could imagine any other sort of life, and I, well, I made my decision long ago: a husband and family or this career, the steadiness of it, the surety that Becky would be cared for."

"It's never too late…" Margie trailed off.

"It won't do, Margie. You and Peter, you chose each other, then built something together. Mr. Carson and I…we chose our careers, and the result is that we've come to…we've come to be very fond of one another, in our own way," Elsie decided, there and then, if she ever mentioned the word 'love' as it pertained to Mr. Carson, she'd be saying it to the man himself.

"I want you to understand, I am not unhappy or regretful of the circumstances; nay, I am grateful. Truly. As you say, I know, when I am at Downton, someone is there, celebrating my victories, and watching for when I need support. That's enough. It's everything." And she meant it.

And now, she was on her way home. And "home" she finally admitted, wasn't Downton, but its butler.

oooOOOooo

Charles was up to his bare elbows in silver polish. He felt that he may never get all of the blasted stuff off, truth be told. He looked around him at the dozens and dozens of silver pieces, all from the first floor (they hadn't gotten any further yet), surrounding him in one of the side rooms off the servant's hall. The junior staff did well enough, but some of these pieces required a practiced and patient hand.

The Season, especially now that the younger ladies were out or nearly so, was a time for deep cleaning. All of those little details that really made a house like Downton truly grand. With the family gone, Carson was happy to let some formalities slacken, as long as the staff understood that this work was essential.

"Is it true, then, Mr. Carson? We'll be havin' the evening off?" Thomas Barrow, the first footman, stood in the doorway, with two other footmen.

"Yes, Thomas, as long as everyone muddles through the rest of the day, I don't see why not."

"Then we might walk into the village then, the lot of us?"

"I suppose, as long as you remember, as staff members, you represent this house and the Grantham family, and behave accordingly," Carson responded.

Thomas gave the others a grin. "But of course, Mr. Carson. We deeply appreciate it." And he was off. Charles looked after him for a moment. _Smarmy fellow, he is,_ he thought, though that wasn't necessarily a detriment in a footman. There was something else about Thomas, a cloud of melancholy that lurked underneath the smarm, which set Carson's teeth on edge. He wasn't sure what it meant, he just knew it made him uneasy.

He lost himself again in the nooks and crannies of silver, humming a little to himself, rolling his sleeves up to avoid staining the crisp whiteness of his dress shirt. Time passed without his noticing. He sang a little out loud, "Wouldn't you like to have me for a sweetheart? Wouldn't you like to have me for a beau…hmmm…hmmm…"

"That one's quite popular in London as well," a voice came from the doorway, his favorite voice. He nearly dropped the chafing bowl in his hand. Mrs. Hughes stood there, still wearing her traveling clothes. She had set her bag down and was pulling off her gloves. He noticed that her hat was new, and more stylish than her previous one.

"You're back," he heard himself, the informality of his words, the joy seeping out of the small phrase, but he seemed unable to correct course. It struck him that, in nearly twenty years working together, they'd never been apart this long. It's odd how he felt her absence now, in this moment of her return, more forcibly than when she'd actually been gone.

"Yes, Mr. Carson, I've returned. There was never any doubt of it," her eyes were twinkling at him. They stood there for a long moment, both of them, him with his sleeves at his elbows like a stable hand, her framed by the doorway, a soft look on her face.

"How did everything go?"

"Oh quite well, I expect. The new housekeeper for Grantham House is very sharp, and Lady Edith finally had a day that was all about her, for once in her life," she paused, stepped a little further into the room. He began polishing again, but his interest in the work was gone. "Oh, and I got the chance to visit with Margie Donovan, O'Connell, she once was."

"You two were thick as thieves, if I remember right." He stopped polishing. There was no point, it seemed. At least not in this moment.

"We were, and we've kept up letters to each other over the years. Seeing her – well, it was grand, Mr. Carson. Just grand," her smile made him smile back. "There's really nothing like being with someone who understands you." She looked up at him, still smiling. His stomach rolled pleasantly. This conversation could easily get out of hand, with that smile of hers and new hat of hers and well, just her being here, really. He went back to the chafing dish.

"You've missed a spot, I believe," she put her hand lightly on his wrist, sending a tingle up to his elbow. She took the silver from him and removed the damning smudge. Handed it back to him.

"I best get settled in then," she walked back towards the door. "I'll see you at dinnertime."

"Most of the staff is walking into the village this evening, I've given them the time off. Mrs. Patmore was going to prepare something simple accordingly. Perhaps we could take dinner in my study?"

She removed her hat, holding it in her hands. "That sounds perfectly lovely, Mr. Carson."

"Mrs. Hughes…it's good to have you home."

"It's grand to be home, Mr. Carson."


	12. Unsinkable

**A/N: Okay, you all. Thanks to everyone who weighed in with thoughtful, detailed opinions on the whole "secret sister" issue. I am still mulling it over, you'll be the first to know if I decide to bury it or forge ahead!**

 **I MUST shout out LoveHughSon who connected me with some great source materials now that I've met up with the timeline of the show. It's been interesting – I had immersed myself in the past, now I've caught up to the "present" and it's tougher going than I thought! I don't want to rehash existing scenes, but flesh out the storyline. It flexes a different set of writing muscles, but I am enjoying the work out! The good news is, though this chapter was a little delayed compared to previous ones, I have my idea for the next chapter already thought through.**

 **~CeeCee**

April/May 1912

 _Elsie was floating. No, no, that was wrong…she was sinking. Murky blue-green water stretched out in every direction, fading to cloudy blackness below and to either side. The only illumination was from above, and, for some reason, she could not lift her head. She tried to scream, but only bubbles floated out and up, up, up. Her black housekeeper's dress billowed out around her, and her loose hair danced around her head. Her keys floated up past her face, and she snatched at them. They trailed up, out of her grasp._

 _She suddenly realized she wasn't alone in the water. There were dozens of other people and objects, in the midst of their own journey through the deep. Before her eyes, Daisy, the little scullery maid, plummeted into the darkness below, disappearing completely. An entire silver tea service danced around her, buffeting her body before the current swirled it away. Someone grabbed her hand and she turned. It was Becky. She was smiling and tugging, pulling her, wanting her to dive deeper. Elsie was afraid. She ripped free from her sister's grasp and Becky, too, disappeared. Thomas Barrow and Sarah O'Brien swam by, twirling in the water, triple slits along the sides of their throats like gills. Elsie could see their eyes were bright yellow._

You're dreaming, _she told herself._ You're dreaming, you daft woman, and you must wake yourself up.

 _For some reason, the knowledge that she wasn't actually drowning didn't make her feel better. Her unease grew. She could feel the ship they had all fallen off of, looming above her, threatening to blot out the gentle light filtering from above._

 _"Ah, Elsie, yeh must be careful. It'll crush yeh, if yeh let it," Joe Burns swam up to her, the Joe Burns she remembered from her youth: stout, well-muscled arms, sweet, wholesome face sunburned by farm work. He touched her cheek with one work-worn hand, and then was swimming away, followed by two cows tumbling over each other._

 _"What, Joe? What are you talking about?" She screamed after him. He said nothing. He simply pointed up._

 _She tried again to move her head. This time it complied. She gazed upward, and the weak bluish light, at the outline of the behemoth floating on the surface. And she realized with a start that it was no ship. No luxury liner. It was Downton._

 _"No time to rest, Mrs. Hughes, we must carry on," Mr. Carson was suddenly beside her, the tails of his black dress coat curling upwards._

 _"But Mr. Carson! It's going to crush us!" She pointed up at the grand house slowly sinking towards them._

 _"Nonsense. There's much to do, much to do," he seemed completely unconcerned._

 _Elsie looked up again. The house was all she could see, nearly blotting out any light. She screamed._

 _"You must remain calm. Now, I'll show you, come along –" he grabbed her hand, and she held it tightly. He started pulling her along, but they weren't going to make it, the house was coming to fast, they were going to be pushed deeper, into the darkness and –_

She gasped herself awake, sitting up in her narrow spinster's bed. She looked towards the window. The sky was the deepest blue of the hour right before dawn. She could make out the familiar shapes of her nightstand and dresser, but didn't light a lamp. She knew sleep was over for her this night, or morning rather, and it was the day of the Downton memorial service for Mr. James and Patrick Crawley. Weeks had passed since the unthinkable had happened, and she'd had the dream almost every night since.

She was tired. She suppose she should get herself presentable and see if Mrs. Patmore or Daisy would rustle her up a pot of tea and some toast. It was going to be a long day.

"Ye daft woman," she muttered to herself. "Ye're all scrambled." And indeed, she was. This had been an odd year, thusfar. Odd indeed. She had turned fifty in March. Fifty! And then: the Titanic, these Crawley deaths, the mess with the entail. And then, of all things: she'd gotten a letter from Joe Burns. After over twenty years. It didn't say much, and said all the more for what it didn't say. She didn't know how to respond, or if she should. She reached over to her nightstand, grabbed the book she knew was sitting there. She had tucked Joe's letter inside of it for safe keeping. She laid it on her lap, opening the cover. Ran her fingers over the inscription that had been put there, ten years ago, on her fortieth birthday, a week after her mother had died.

She held the letter from Joe Burns in one hand, and the old birthday gift from Mr. Carson in the other, in the near-darkness of her room.

"Unsinkable, Elsie, that's you." And she laughed at the ridiculousness of it all.

oooOOOooo

Charles Carson didn't want to admit it, but there it was: he felt defeated. He was assuming this was a temporary situation, because one _must_ carry on, no matter what.

The sinking of the Titanic and all that came afterwards, like a giant tower of cards blown over by the slightest breeze, had shaken him to his core. What he'd felt about himself, about the Crawleys, about Downton, about the _world_ was slowly sliding slantways.

He'd even snapped at Elsie Hughes earlier today, which, while something that did happen on occasion with someone you worked and essentially lived with for over thirty years, was quite rare for them. And while he felt regretful for his tone, he hadn't liked her dismissive attitude about the family, about _their_ family, the Crawleys. But before his indignation could grow, she'd grown wistful. Talked about another type of life, one with a children, a spouse, a life out of service. She'd looked tired, and maybe even a little sad.

They'd been interrupted, as they often were, before they could take the conversation any further. The two of them probably had hundreds, if not thousands, of unfinished conversations between them, tons of dangling threads. But this one nagged at him. He felt he was missing something, but he wasn't sure what. And he certainly didn't like leaving any conversation with her with bad feelings on either side.

She'd just been so adamant in her assertion that the Crawleys were not _her_ family. As best as he knew, all of her natural family were gone. Her mother had died over ten years ago, right around her birthday. Wouldn't she be grateful for the connections she'd made in this house? He felt personally slighted, and kept reminding himself she'd said nothing against _him._ Then why did it feel that way?

He kept seeing the faraway look on her face, how plain worn out she seemed. Could she be considering a life away from Downton? But how? Where? He remembered a letter coming in for her today, the second one from an address in her hometown. There could be something there, perhaps. But while he perfunctorily screened some of the younger or newer staff's correspondence, he never intruded on those who'd been at Downton for any amount of time, and certainly not her.

There was a knock at his study door, and he hoped it wasn't Thomas Barrow. He and Sarah O'Brien had gotten a bee in their collective bonnet about John Bates, who, despite his injury, seemed to be a perfect valet for Lord Grantham, not even considering their history. They were like bi-carb and vinegar, those two – sour and strange apart, but explosive together.

"Come in," he signed, mustering some energy.

"I hope this isn't a bad time?" Elsie Hughes was standing there, a hesitant smile on her face. She still looked tired, but more like herself.

"Not at all, especially given who I _thought_ was a'knocking," he stood, pulled out a chair for her. Got them each a sherry.

"Well now you have a perfect excuse to avoid any individual or combined instance of Thomas or Miss O'Brien," the tempered mischief he so loved about her was twinkling in her eyes again. Something loosened in his chest.

"A closed door wouldn't be enough to stop either of them, Mrs. Hughes, as you well know."

"Well, Mr. Carson, perhaps our combined forces would be, here's hoping," she gave him a little toast and sipped her sherry. He didn't want to break the mood, but he owed her something.

"This came for you in today's mail," he handed over the letter he noted earlier.

She took it, looked at the address, and an unreadable expression came over her face. She tucked it into her waist pocket without a word.

"Mrs. Hughes…I hope you've not been unhappy here, at Downton," he didn't know where else to start. Too many things he wasn't supposed to say. Too many things he didn't _want_ to say.

"Well, Mr. Carson, if I was, I'd be quite the glutton for punishment, wouldn't you say?" She teased, but then became serious. "I've been industrious here, and built a life here. I've been…happy, too, Mr. Carson, in my own way. I've made friends I've never imagined I'd have." And she smiled softly at him. "Friends who are very dear to me, as dear as family." Her voice was warm and thoughtful, but her hand was still hovering over her pocket, where the letter sat.

"I am glad to hear it, Mrs. Hughes. I feel the same way," he felt better than he had in days, though the threads from earlier today were still dangling.

"Friends like family, even if none of them have the surname 'Crawley,'" she added, and now she seemed to be holding back real laughter.

"Impertinence, thy name is Elsie Hughes," he said, and rather liked the feeling of her Christian name in his mouth, but he was smiling.

And now her laughter _did_ burst forth. He may not know what caused that faraway look in her eyes, but she was _here_ , with him, in this moment, as she had been for many many moments before. And would be for many more.


	13. Scars, Part 1

Scars

 **A/N: Dearest, dearest Chelsie readers. I owe you this note, as well as this chapter! As we all know, IRL sometimes gets in the way of our FF. That's what happened to me in August, but I am happy to be back. I also realized, in watching some of the show's Chelsie moments, I DID get some things in this fic "wrong" (e.g., out of canon), like the year Mrs. Hughes started working at Downton, which would require a** ** _major_** **overhaul of this story if I were to correct it. I also feel that I've had the characters too forward with each other, too quickly. Ah well. That I may be able to explain, I think. I am deciding to soldier on, in any case. I missed these guys, I missed YOU guys, and I missed writing this story of mine. I hope to continue regularly from here on out!**

 **This chapter is very connected in concept to the next; I had planned on a triptych of sorts about William: one in 1912, 1918 and 1924 respectively; then the first two parts got VERY long. So the third in the set will belong to the next chapter. ~CeeCee**

Early June 1912

Elsie stood there, in the hallway, watching William's gangly, boyish figure move away from her. And he _was_ a lad still, really, no more than seventeen or so, though his footman's livery battled with that fact daily. A boy with a sore heart for a silly, sweet-faced scullery maid, lover of the piano and horses. Who still cried for his parents sometimes at night, she was sure. A good lad, all around. A lad, she thought to herself, she'd be proud to call her own, if she'd made different choices half a lifetime ago.

 _You're a good woman, Mrs. Hughes. I don't know how we'd manage without you, honestly…._

His kind, earnest words rang in her ears, as did her conversation with Joe Burns over dinner the other night. She'd turned down being "Mrs. Burns" years ago, with some regret, to be sure; when she tried to envision what her life on the farm would have been like, it made her panic a little. The messiness and dirt of it, the crowdedness of it, the brazen _intimacy_ of a family life.

Her life, as it was now, at Downton, was guided by several sets of rules, stacked up next to each other, like a game of dominoes. One display of propriety naturally connected to each another, the standards following each other with regularity that was both comforting and claustrophobic.

But, somehow, humanity couldn't be quashed, no matter how man rules you threw at it. She hardly thought about it day to day, but her family _was here at Downton._ William, the son she never had; Anna, the daughter; Mr. Carson….well. She'd let herself ponder that gentleman on a train ride back to Downtown, over ten years ago. These days, it definitely seemed prudent to follow the rules governing their particular, especial friendship. Certainly, it was less messy that way. She'd be lying to herself, however, if Mr. Carson's face didn't pop into her mind when she was considering Joe Burns' offer. She just kept those thoughts nice and boxed up, lest they break free and run amok with her emotions.

But William. Dear, puppyish, kind, earnest William. He spilled Elsie's heart open, and she stood there in the nearly-empty hallway, with the noises of midday slowly coming alive around her, and willed herself not to cry.

 _We leave marks on each other, no doubt._ She glanced down at her hands clasped in front of her, rubbed her left thumb over the edge of her right palm. There was a faint, ridged scar there. From Becky's teeth. Her sister had been no more than three or so, and teenaged Elsie had been patiently spooning porridge into her mouth while their mother and father ate a hurried breakfast of their own.

Elsie never knew what happened in her sister's muddled mind to reach for her rather than the spoonfuls of sugar and oats she'd been eating so happily. But she did. The spoon went flying, landing in Da's tea. Before Elsie could react, the softest part of her palm was in her sister's mouth, and those sweet baby teeth were chomping hard, down. She yelped, her parents yelped. Becky squealed with delight. The porridge landed on the floor with a thud. Da grabbed her hand, bent over it. They both saw the red half-moon of blood bubble up on her hand.

"Ach, that'll leave a mark, lass," Da dabbed it with his napkin, turned to Becky. "Ye daft bairn, ye've marked yer sister for good, ye have!" His voice was a mix of frustration and resigned love. He waved the blood-stained napkin in Becky's direction, and she laughed with delight. The rest of her family smiled ruefully at each other. Becky had marked them all, forever. For good or bad.

And now, almost forty years later, the mark was there still. Elsie smiled to herself. _We leave marks on each other, truly. We may not even realize we've done it._ William wouldn't be her only reason for staying. But he'd left his mark on her, nonetheless. And it was one that made a difference.

oooOOOooo

Early August, 1918

Charles Carson was very, very tired, in his body and his heart. He leaned back in his chair, listening to the sounds in the hallway and kitchen beyond his door as they wound down for the evening. He pushed his ledgers aside and rubbed his eyes. He didn't like to think so, but he felt _old_ suddenly, and that made him feel helpless _._

Nothing at Downton had been quite right since the war began in earnest, but the past week, since William had died, it all felt even more _wrong._ That brave, kind young man, laying in his deathbed, festooned with wedding flowers. All of it hurt Carson's heart in a way that had no words.

Not to mention, Mr. Crawley was home, but terribly injured and still planning on marrying the wrong woman. Carson watched as Lady Mary's heart broke in several different ways each day. Despite what other people felt, he knew what she was made of. There was a secret softness to her that could be routed out, if one was patient and kind. He had seen it, from the time she was a small girl. And Mr. Crawley had seen it, even more quickly. And then, it had all gone wrong. Like so many things these days…

There was a knock on the door, and even though it wasn't her distinctive rapping, he was hoping to see Elsie Hughes as he called out, "Come in!" They seemed to be passing by each other the past week or so; he'd not shared a glass of wine with her since before William died.

Something more complicated than disappointment settled on him when Mrs. Patmore appeared in the doorway.

"Well that's me, done," she said. "Mrs. Hughes isn't in her study, so I wanted to check in with you, Mr. Carson, before retiring. Need anything?" He could see the worry and exhaustion he felt being reflected back at him on her face.

"Thank you, Mrs. Patmore, I was lost in the numbers here. I hadn't realized how late it was," he stood up, ignoring a half a dozen aches in his bones. "How is Daisy doing?"

"Not well, Mr. Carson. Not yet, at least," Mrs. Patmore's eyes clouded over with tears. "She's still carryin' around the guilt of it all, rather than seein' what she was doin' as a kindness. Letting William give her – and his da – what he could. She'll get there. Sometimes, it's hard to accept other's kindnesses." She shook her head, wiped the tears off her face. "But now, Daisy and Mr. Mason'll have each other. That's William's legacy, you could say." She looked up at him, "Guess I'll be off to bed. You'll…you'll check on Mrs. Hughes, won't you, Mr. Carson?"

"Indeed, Mrs. Patmore, I won't retire until I've seen her," he meant it. He was a bit worried himself about her.

After Mrs. Patmore had gone, he checked her office himself, rapping on the door and opening it without a response, something he hardly ever did. She wasn't there. A lonely, cold cup of tea sat on her sideboard. She wasn't in the storerooms, and she wasn't in the yard. He was near panic when he noticed a low light in the servants' hall.

He hurried down the hallway and there she was. Her back was too him; she was sitting at the little upright piano, her hands resting lightly on the closed lid protecting the keys. He wondered how long she'd been there. He wondered that Mrs. Patmore hadn't checked the hall; he wondered, perhaps, if she'd been moving around all evening, treading lightly, avoiding everyone, only to end up here, finally.

"Hiding in plain sight, I see," he said quietly. She started a little, sighed.

She didn't turn around, but she sat up a little straighter. "Easy to hide when you're the boss, I think. Most people are trying to avoid you, if they can," her usual teasing tone was there, but it was muted. "The only people I had to really dodge were you, Anna and Mrs. Patmore." She spun around to face him. She wasn't crying but her face was heavy with sorrow. It was a testament to her spirit, he thought, that she could even find humor through her sadness.

"Now, now, Mrs. Hughes, be honest," he stepped closer. "We both know Miss O'Brien's on that list as well." He waited, hoping he hadn't misjudged.

A smile lit her face briefly, sun through the clouds. His heart leapt and softened. He face became still again.

"Ah, Mr. Carson, here we two are, year after year, with nary a scratch on us – well, at least none too worse for the wear – and William, that dear, dear lad –" her voice caught, and she looked away from him, placed one hand back on the piano. "Well, life is not fair, nor is it meant to be." She finished, brushed quickly at her damp cheek.

"May I?" He gestured to the small piano bench, aware that once he sat, if she let him, they would be very close together, much closer than they usually were. And it was late. And his heart was worn and sore and softened with sadness, hers and his own. The rules that governed their lives felt…blurry…right now. They meant less than she did.

She nodded, her eyes still far away. He sat, braced himself. Took her hand from the piano lid into his own. She looked at him, startled. It was so small, and yet so big. To sit here, in the middle of the night, unobserved. Just…holding her hand. They both knew it. He didn't want to speak. He was a little afraid to.

She finally did. "Do you remember, Mr. Carson, a few years back, right around the time Mr. Crawley came to Downton, when an old beau of mine came poking 'round again?" She smiled a little at him.

"Yes, I do, Mrs. Hughes," he replied, feeling nervous. "You turned him down, much to this house's collective and my individual benefit." He surprised himself a little by saying it. He was so tired. And she was so…lovely. Even in her sadness. Maybe even more so, since she was less guarded. He supposed that was it.

"Well, flattery will get you everywhere, and you're right – I did turn Joe Burns down. Part of me wanted to say 'yes' but most of me…most of me didn't. I had a lot of reasons, some of them quite reasonable and others probably somewhat frivolous…" she trailed off, and he saw her eyes move towards their joint hands.

"But in the end, it was a conversation with William that settled it for me." She paused, collecting herself. Took a shaky breath, and continued, "He had no idea, of course, that I was contemplating Joe's offer. No one did at the time. But William…he just reminded me, without knowing he did, of why I made the choice to stay at Downton in the first place. And what – and who – kept me here."

"I, for one, am glad that he did, in that case," he answered.

"I thank you for that," she replied. She sounded a bit more like herself now. "It all just feels like…such a pointless waste, Mr. Carson. That young lad, with only goodness to put into the world. Gone, like that."

"He's not completely gone, though, is he, Mrs. Hughes? What he did for Daisy, for Mr. Mason," he stood, released her hand, against his own wishes. "What he did for you, for those of us at Downton who need you here. Even if he never knew, we do. _I_ do."

He stole a glance at her. She was looking down at her lap, at the hand he'd just been holding.

"He left his mark on me, that's for certain," she finally replied.

"Good night, Mrs. Hughes," he answered, softly.

"Good night, Mr. Carson," she finally looked up at him. "And thank you. Thank you, for reminding me about things I'd forgotten. I'm grateful that you did."


	14. Boxed-Up Heart

**A/N: Okay, I fibbed. This isn't the third part of my "William triptych". That will come a little later; I've got other ground I want to cover before I jump to 1924. Thanks again for reading, commenting and messaging me – I really appreciate every single piece of correspondence! ~CeeCee**

Boxed-Up Heart

Fall 1920

He stood there in the middle of the village square, looking after Dr. Clarkson, unable to catch his breath. Until a few minutes ago, he realized, he was able to fool himself that the bits of conversation he'd overheard between the women meant nothing, or almost nothing – they all were getting on in years, and each year, there was some new ache or pain to bring one to the doctor. Unpleasant, sometimes, but expected.

He hadn't expected what the doctor had said; and more, what he _hadn't_ said.

And Charlie Carson thought of all of the things he himself had never said. Things that _mattered._ And how, sometimes, not saying them became so ingrained that even _thinking_ about saying them out loud felt impossible. Or even just _thinking_ them, period.

 _I love her._

He really needed to sit down. He'd been planning on walking home after speaking to Dr. Clarkson, but he knew he'd never make it in the state he was in. A cup of tea, perhaps, to center himself.

 _I love Elsie Hughes._

That wouldn't do, on second thought. He needed….fortification. He turned around and stepped into the Grantham Arms.

 _I love her. Very much. What if she's truly ill? What if it's…?_

"A glass of port, please, Mr. Jones," he sat in his usual corner spot, and realized his voice was far too loud when the barman jumped a little.

"Are you quite alright, Mr. Carson?" Jones' brow furrowed as he set the drink in front of him.

"Yes, yes, quite. Sorry, my mind was elsewhere," he picked up the wine, sipped it, appreciating the rich sweetness. It was very similar to the vintage he'd shared with Mrs. Hughes last week…

 _What if it IS cancer? What if she dies? What then, Charlie?_

The whisper in his head had shifted from his own usual internal voice to one that sounded very much like a young woman he knew long ago, in another lifetime. _Alice._ Another life, another love. The boy he had been had bared his whole heart and soul for love, once upon a time. And briefly, he'd thought it'd been worth it. But he'd lost Alice, in the end, to his mate. To Charles Grigg.

He had once told Elsie Hughes, that life had altered him. It was after she'd turned down that old beau of hers, now that he thought of it. And it was true; all of the slings and arrows that life hurls at us, we must carry on through it, forever changed. But the change didn't _just_ come from outside. The biggest changes happened in the secret corners of a man's heart.

And Charlie Carson had boxed his own heart up over forty years ago, in the dusty backstage of some dancehall, along with his tap shoes and greasepaint. He'd left the unpredictable for the staid, for the steady: the tap shoes replaced by a footman's livery, the greasepaint for silver polish.

Life had altered him, yes, but _he_ had made some of those changes himself. He didn't think of himself as unfair or overly rigid, but the rules that governed his daily life at Downton came as a blessed relief to him after the messiness of a broken heart. It was a choice he made as a young man: not to give up on love entirely, _per se_ , but to set it aside. Not forever, maybe, but for a good long while.

And what he hadn't seemed to notice, to _really_ notice, was that, after all of these years, that box he'd placed his heart in was full of memories.

 _A glimpse of the new head housemaid, with the Scottish burr and smooth sable-colored hair._

 _That same brown hair, gently being covered with snow, on Christmas Eve, in the moon-drenched yard._

 _A gloved hand on his shoulder, as he wept at Mrs. Davis' graveside._

 _Dozens and dozens of eye-rolls._

 _A thousand well-timed retorts._

 _Hundreds of shared glasses of wine._

And: one woman filling that box where he'd tucked his heart, oh so conveniently and tidily, all of the memories and moments pushing outward, filling it, straining to burst free.

And that was how he'd fallen in love, the second time. The final time. Not in a giddy burst of lust and yearning, youthful feelings, as wonderful and terrifying as those things had been; no.

Elsie Hughes had touched his heart and mind in a series of moments, so intertwined with who he _was_ , that he couldn't exactly pinpoint when they had all added up to love.

But they did.

And that dusty box with his heart in it: it was waiting for more moments, more memories. He couldn't bear to think they were going to run out.

 _What would he do without her?_


	15. In Sharp Relief

In Sharp Relief

Late Fall 1920

This was it then. After the weeks, months, of waiting, of feeling simultaneously trapped inside her own unpredictable, potentially traitorous body and almost entirely removed from her own life, from who she was, and who the world _thought_ she was.

She _despised_ the way Beryl Patmore squeezed her arm as they waited for the nurse to call her in to see Dr. Clarkson. No. That was wrong, and it wasn't fair. She despised that she _needed_ that squeeze, that reassurance, and, that if the news was the worst they could imagine, the small, red-haired cook would be there, her work-worn hands holding her up.

She was seething with anger, and didn't know where to direct it. What was she even angry at? The potential disease, even now, simmering in her body, slowly destroying it? Was it the overwhelming kindness of Lady Grantham, or her own deep gratitude towards that kindness? Was it the permanent crease between Mr. Carson's eyes when he looked at her these past few weeks, a softness appearing in his face that tugged at her heart while wrecking her pride? Was it the way those eyes assessed her now, not as an equal, but as something soft, destructible. Vulnerable. What a loathsome word that seemed, right now. _Vulnerable._

She was strong.

She was independent.

She got things done, all day, every day. It was what she did. It was who she _was._

This damnable, unavoidable _weakness_ wasn't something she'd ever considered having to handle. Being a sick person wasn't something she could be. And, yet, there it was: she very well may be.

The young nurse finally opened the door, ushered her in. With a final glance and nod at her friend, Elsie Hughes stepped in, to find out from the doctor who she was.

Dr. Clarkson looked up as she entered, nodded to the nurse, who left them on their own. He immediately started speaking, but Elsie didn't hear anything but her own roaring heart at first. But he was _smiling_ at her, his eyes bright. The roaring in her ears became louder and the edges of her vision were fading to grey, but that was quite alright, thank you very much, because right in the center of the growing grey cloud was Dr. Clarkson's grinning, speaking mouth, and he wouldn't have been smiling like that at her if she was ill, and that's all that really mattered.

And then suddenly she inhaled a sharp combination of lavender and ammonia, and the doctor was crouched by her chair, holding a packet of smelling salts gently in front of her.

"Most people nearly faint when being told _bad_ news, Mrs. Hughes," he gently placed the salts packet in her hand, patted her shoulder, then walked towards the door leading to the hallway. "Might I bring Mrs. Patmore in now? I am sure she'll be nearly as relieved as you are."

Elsie nodded absently. Frankly, the doctor could have asked her if she wanted a line of dancing girls to come in and share the good news, for all she cared at the moment. She was _fine._ She wasn't ill. She was herself. Again.

And then Beryl Patmore was rushing in after the doctor's tall figure, and her eyes were blurry with unshed tears. And the doctor was saying things like "fibroadenoma" and "entirely benign" and "no cause for concern." And Mrs. Patmore was nodding and smiling at her encouragingly, but Elsie couldn't move. She was too busy relishing in the feeling of her body, sitting in the chair. Her entirely healthy, non-traitorous body.

"Alright, then?" Mrs. Patmore was nodding at her, helping her to her feet. She and the doctor exchanged glances, then looked back at Elsie.

"Mrs. Hughes, I just want to say one more thing. One of the biggest responsibilities a doctor has is conveying sometimes life-changing news – for good and bad. When I got your test results, I was, of course, mightily pleased for you. But, I was pleased for many other people too, and not just Mrs. Patmore here. You are a pillar of Downton, Mrs. Hughes – the village, and the house," he held his hand out and she took it, shaking it silently. She knew she ought to say something in response to his kind words, but the most she could manage was a nod.

Mrs. Patmore rolled her eyes, took Elsie's arm. "Let's get ourselves a nice cuppa, shall we? Perhaps with a wee bit added to it, to celebrate?" Then she winked at the doctor.

"That's a sound idea," the doctor replied. "And ladies, I do believe one of you should let Mr. Carson know Mrs. Hughes' test results. He was quite concerned." And Elsie wasn't entirely sure, but she thought she saw the doctor wink back.

oooOOOooo

They made it all the way to the street before the tears suddenly started falling. And almost before she realized it, they were streaming down her face, warm relief, her chest hitching with gasping, watery breaths. Beryl Patmore pulled her to the side of the thoroughfare, in an unassuming spot mostly shielded from passersby.

The smaller woman engulfed her in a hug and Elsie surrendered herself to it. These tears felt good, letting them out felt good. These felt cleansing, not like the ones that seemed perpetually caught in her throat the past few months.

"Well, that's a relief, then?" The cook handed her a simple blue handkerchief from her pocket.

Elsie took a shaky breath, wiped her face dry hastily. She knew if, at that moment, anyone they knew happened to pass by, she'd be the talk of the town for days to come. Most of her didn't care a bit. But part of her did, the part coming back to herself.

"I think it's time for that cuppa, plus a touch more, wouldn't you say, Mrs. Patmore? Have we time for a stop in the Grantham Arms?"

"Indeed we do, Mrs. Hughes just about. I do believe a toast is in order."

"Mrs. Patmore, I must ask you one last favor," Elsie said as they paused outside the pub. She placed her hand on the other woman's shoulder. This boisterous, cantankerous, kind-hearted woman, who'd been more than a good friend to her. "I need you…I need you to let Mr. Carson know I'm alright. That I'm not…that I don't have…"

"Yes, of course," Beryl Patmore nodded, as if she'd already planned on it. "I know how the two of you operate."

"And what is that supposed to mean?" Elsie heard herself and almost burst out laughing. She _was_ back to herself, thank goodness. "I am not sure you understand what –"

"Oooh, I understand just fine, and more than either of you probably credit me. Or want me to." Now it was the cook's turn to look like she was about to erupt in giggles. "Never mind that, though, and let's get that drink you promised me."

Elsie debated the numerous paths this conversation could take, and finally chose gratitude. "Thank you, Beryl. For everything. Really." It was she who squeezed the cook's arm this time.

"Lordy, we really best get that drink before the sky come's a-fallin' down on us. 'Beryl,' is it, now?" Their mingled laughter followed them into the pub.

oooOOOooo

 _"Sailing away with a smoothing iron, sailing away with a smoothing iron…"_

She'd caught herself humming the old tune several times over the course of the day, which had felt like one of the best days of her life, and kept having to stop herself. She kept turning that moment in the hallway, listening to Charles Carson's rather pleasant singing voice as he resumed polishing the silver, and think that is was _her_ that had put that joy into his voice. Her health. Her return, to who she was.

She shook her head, smiled again to herself. She went back to balancing the amounts on the kitchen stores, taking satisfaction in the task in a way she hadn't for weeks. Today, the banal felt spectacular, the routine tasks, thrilling.

"I'm off to bed, then. Must be that afternoon drinkin'," Beryl Patmore was standing in the doorway, smiling at her.

"I think you've earned the right to retire a bit early tonight, mayhaps even the whole week," Elsie replied, rubbing her face. "I ought to throw it in, myself, really. I've not been sleepin' as well as I'd like recently, for obvious reasons. But, somehow, I can't let this day end yet. It's a day I'll never forget, that's certain."

"A new lease on life, it 'tis, though getting there was a bit rocky, I'd say. Not somethin' you'd want to go through, regular-like, but, well, I remember when I got my eye surgery. I thought I was done for, my career, my life here. 'Twasn't life and death, of course, but it _felt_ like my life was endin', Mrs. Hughes. I felt outside myself, but also trapped by my failin' vision. Some days, even after all of this time, I get up and just look around the kitchen. Just glad to be seein' a pot, or a tea cup. Sounds daft, I know."

"Not to me, it doesn't. Not one bit," Elsie grinned. "Go, now, before someone pulls you back in. You can look at pots and pans tomorrow." They both laughed a bit, and she continued. "Thank you, Mrs. Patmore, for your friendship. I'd not got on without it, these past few months."

Mr. Carson appeared in the doorway next to the cook, two glasses and a bottle in hand.

"Mrs. Patmore! I didn't know you were here. I'm happy to get another glass, if you care to join us?"

"No thank you, Mr. Carson, I'm off to be. Only one tipple a day, for me." And she was off with another chuckle.

"Should I ask what that was about?" He wasn't looking at her, not yet, not really. He sat the glasses down carefully, almost as carefully as he set out his words. They were…trying to get back, she realized. To where they had been. To what they _were._ Together.

"I expect not. I shan't shock you with wild tales of the pair of us throwing several pints back at the Grantham Arms," her heart bubbled in her chest and she joined him at the small side table. She took a sip.

"This is divine, Mr. Carson."

"It's from southern France, a small vineyard. His Lordship didn't care for it, but I can't say I agree. There's something special about it, I think, though it's a touch dry, tart even, though I perfectly understand why it may not be to _everyone's_ liking."

"Are we talking about the wine, now, or Miss O'Brien?" She hid her smile behind her glass.

He raised one eyebrow at her. The corner of his mouth twitch, almost smiled.

She rolled her eyes, topped her glass off.

Everything was going to be just fine.


	16. A Picture Postcard Day

**A/N: You guys. There were So. Many. Things. I forgot about that happened at the end of Season 3 and beginning of Season 4, so many things that reminded me how kickass (and ahead of her time) Elsie is, and I really DID consider delving into some of them: how she helped Thomas after the incident with Jimmy, everything she did for Anna, including the dressing-down of the despicable Mr. Green; her reaction to Sybil's death, etc. And maybe I will add some of those chapters eventually…but I wanted to get to this day, to this part of the story. I have a pretty good idea of the lay of the land from here on out (even have the final chapter planned, for down the road).**

 **This is my new favorite chapter, Chapter Sweet 16. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it. ~CeeCee**

The London Season, 1923

He'd _never_ get there on his own. She realized that now. _A gentle push, mayhaps a touch more, that's all they need, every now and then,_ she smiled to herself. She wasn't sure she entirely agreed with the status quo: that women should always have to swoop in, unobserved and underappreciated, guiding their men to the best decision, and then let _them_ take all of the credit for it, in the end; but, there it was.

The world was changing, she was well aware; and glad of it, in many respects. They'd get there, in the end, as the women's suffrage movement understood; though it'd never be all at once. It'd be in stops and starts, with lots of burnt toast in-between. She grinned to herself as she made her way down the hallway towards Mr. Carson's temporary study, thinking of his reaction to her electric toaster a few years ago. _Stops, starts, and lots and lots of burnt toast,_ she grinned to herself. Progress wasn't always pretty, comfortable, or even economical, but it was part of living, in her mind.

 _In the meantime, thank goodness we're here to help them along, our men,_ she smiled again, patting the pocket containing the picture postcard Anna had picked up for her earlier today whilst she was running errands for the young ladies. Elsie Hughes had turned sixty last year, thank you very much, and it was right about that time she decided to stop pretending that Charlie Carson wasn't, in nearly every way that mattered, exactly that: _her man._ There were benefits to getting older, it seemed. Being indiscreet, even if it was only to oneself, seemed to be one of them.

She entered the darkened study Mr. Carson was using at Grantham House, and eyed the board on the wall, trying to gauge exactly where the card should be pinned to have the maximum desired effect. She found an open spot, and started tacking the card down. _No, Elsie,_ you _would spot it there, ye daft woman, but_ he _won't see it._

She shook her head, pulled the card out. Aimed her eyes higher. Charles Carson was a very tall man. She stood on her tiptoes, and pressed the thumbtack in. Yes, that was right at eye-height for him, she was sure. Hadn't she been looking up at him for over thirty years now?

And, for second, it flashed through her mind (and let's be honest, her body) what it might be like to be reaching up, on her tiptoes nearly, not to help her man come to the best decision, but to put her arms around his neck. For a moment, she could almost _feel_ it, the smooth texture of his collar, the warmth of his neck, the short hairs at the base of his nape, mingled silver and black…

"Now really, get yourself together," she muttered, stepping back, shaking her head. Her stomach rolled in a not completely unpleasant way. She couldn't help but smile as she left the room, though. They'd all have their day at the seaside, in any case, and whatever that may bring.

oooOOOooo

They nearly filled one Pullman car themselves, and were rowdy enough that any other embarking passengers raised their eyebrows and found somewhere else to seat themselves. Charles resisted the urge to shush them every five minutes, partly because he knew it would do no good, and partly because this _was_ their special day off, and they had all worked very hard the past few weeks.

"Well done, Mr. Carson. I think this was a fine idea, and the staff are quite thrilled, even if it's a defeat of sorts," Mrs. Hughes was suddenly at his elbow, standing next to him at the head of the aisle. He glanced over at her. She was looking very well in a light blue hat and dress. The finery, however, didn't quite offset the devilish twinkle in her eyes.

"No surprise, there, Mrs. Hughes, as I am nearly certain the idea was yours, despite the fact that I was the one who suggested and arranged it," he raised an eyebrow at her, grinning at the shocked look on her face. He may not know how, exactly, but she was the one who brought them 'round to this Pullman car, to this trip to the seaside, to the entire staff, the ladies dressed in light pastels and the young men already with their jackets off, shirt sleeves rolled up, grinning and chatting happily with each other. He'd been wondering all morning how many of his own good ideas had actually been hers, in the end.

"Wonders never cease," she said quietly, then raised her voice slightly. "Can I have your attention for a moment, please, everyone? I promise this will be the last bit of business of the day. Mr. Carson and I, and Lord and Lady Grantham, would like to thank you all for your diligence and professionalism the past few weeks. This excursion is an expression of that appreciation. And while we'd like you to remember and hope you all conduct yourselves as befitting members of a great household, we mostly want you all to simply relax, and enjoy yourselves."

The staff burst into cheers and applause, and Mrs. Hughes smiled and nodded, lifted her hand for silence once more, "And I do believe a special thanks goes to Mr. Carson, for arranging such a thoughtful day of relaxation for all of us." She smiled up at him and the train car exploded again in cheers and calls of his name, shouts of gratitude.

And then she drifted away like a blue cloud, to sit with Mrs. Patmore and Daisy, leaving him standing there, basking in his staff's appreciation.

 _Blasted, blessed woman¸_ he thought to himself, and couldn't help but smile.

oooOOOooo

 _What a truly wonderful day,_ Elsie Hughes thought to herself, feeling the shifting sand beneath the checked blanket. She smiled over at Beryl Patmore, who grinned back at her, over the heads of Daisy, Ivy and Mr. Levinson's young valet, Ethan, the younger folks chatting and eating sandwiches, drinking lemonade and cold tea.

Her eyes traveled along the expanse of shore. She saw the Bateses, near the penny lick carts and beachside cabanas, and she was glad to see some of the worry lifted from their faces, at least for the moment.

All of the men, with their trousers and sleeves rolled up, feet dusted in sand. Even Thomas laughed out loud as he tossed a ball to Mr. Molesley, who caught it and glanced at the serene Miss Baxter for approval. Her face broke into a bright grin in response.

A few of the maids and hall boys were frolicking in the surf, splashing each other with salt water.

"This was a fine idea, Mrs. Hughes," Beryl Patmore finally said, sighing, wiggling her bare toes in the sand.

Elsie's toes responded in kind; there was something very earthy, almost illicit, about how wonderful the warm sand felt on her feet. It made her feel young. No, that wasn't it; it made her feel exactly the age she was, but _bolder_ somehow. More alive.

"I'll relay your compliments to Mr. Carson," she responded, winked, and both women chuckled heartily. She shaded her eyes, scanning the beach for the man in question. He was standing on a dune about twenty feet away, surveying the ballgame, a contented look on his face. With one last eyebrow raise at Mrs. Patmore, she got to her feet and walked up the slight incline to where he was standing.

"Does it still feel like a defeat, Mr. Carson?" She stood beside him, and realized that, despite the fact he was still in his vest, pocket watch in place, he'd removed his shoes, his bare toes sinking into the sand, alongside hers. The sight of them sent another one of those slow, languorous, dangerous, delightful roll through her lower belly.

"Not as such, Mrs. Hughes," his eyebrow shot up. "Though I still contend that the Crystal Palace holds its own charm, as well." She noticed that his eyes traveled downward, to their bare feet, side by side, covered in sand. _No fools like old fools,_ she thought. And then took a chance.

"We'll not have uncovered our feet and not dip them into the surf. Come on, let's go," she grinned up at him, enjoying the way he usually coiffed hair danced in the sea breeze. And she started towards the waves, glancing behind her, to make sure he was following. He was, with a look that was equal parts excitement and trepidation.

 _Exactly right,_ she thought, and chuckled to herself.

oooOOOooo

 _"You can always hold my hand, if you need to feel steady…"_

It was late, and he really ought to be asleep. He was tired, in that pleasant, warm, heavy way one gets tired after spending the day walking in the sand and bracing against the sea air. And there was no denying that is had been one of the best days in recent memory, one of those days that felt completely, start to finish, even its imperfections adding to the contentedness he felt steeped in.

And yet.

He couldn't sleep. He could blame his somewhat unfamiliar room and bed in Grantham House. But of course that wasn't it. He should drifting off, satisfied, happy and calm, but part of him didn't want to let those feelings go yet. He knew himself, and knew that when he awoke tomorrow, the magic of the day would have dissipated, the way he felt now, a memory, or a memory of a memory.

He was as awake as he'd ever been. And it was all due to her hand in his, as the cold sea water swirled around their bare feet.

But it wasn't just that. No. Their hands had been joined, in the past. It wasn't just her hand, but her _words._ Not just teasing. Warm. _Flirting._

He'd loved her for so long now, it was second nature to him. And, he supposed, as was the way when you loved someone for so long, you took it for granted. You took _them_ for granted, that they would always be there, exactly where you wanted them to be. He kept thinking back, to when there was a possibility that she was ill, very ill, and the relief that flooded through him when he found out she wasn't.

They never discussed it, because he wasn't to have known. And then…well, things went back to the usual. _They_ went back to their own version of usual, of day-to-day.

But holding her hand, so cheekily, earnestly offered, made him feel like…like maybe he didn't want to go back to the usual. She was right. They were getting on, there was no denying it.

What did he want the rest of his life to look like? Who did he want to spend it with? And how? His mind and heart kept going back to Elsie Hughes, her cheeks pink in the sun, her hand in his, talking of nothing and everything, as they always had, for years, for decades, but…but with the promise of _more._ Of something else. Of her hand not only in his, but her hand on his cheek, on his sunburned brow.

He sighed, restless and happy and terrified all at once. He sat up, turned up the bedside lamp. Took the postcard of the seaside that he'd finally spotted on the board in his study.

Smiled at it, laughing. Proof, that she'd planned the whole thing. As part of him knew. She'd been keeping him steady for years now, whether he knew it at the time or not.

He looked at the card in his hand. Raised it to his nose. It smelled a little of lavender and sandlewood, as if she'd carried it in her pocket, determining the best time to plant it in his office.

He pressed it to his lips. And began formulating a future that he'd never dared consider.


	17. House Hunters

Chapter 17

House Hunters

 **A/N: Technical note: I am an ignorant American, though I am trying to be as thoughtful as possible with the various dialects of the characters in the show. There are two lines in Scottish towards the end of this chapter. I totally lifted them from Google translate. If they are terrible, blame Google translate, and forgive me! ;-) ~ CeeCee**

Something must be done, he knows it, he's still uncertain exactly what. Since that day by the sea over half a year ago, he's been trying to sort himself out. For days, even weeks, at a time, he'll convince himself that there's nothing _to_ be done, and, in any case, she'd not want to change things.

It's all too inappropriate.

Too messy.

Too…unpredictable.

He remembers as a lad, his mother sending him down to the butcher's to pick up meat for dinner. It would be passed to his small child's hands from the butcher's own beefy, hairy-knuckled ones in pristine white paper. He'd take it, along with the pleasant teasing of the man, and hurry on back to his mum, who'd be bustling around in her kitchen.

Most days, he'd drop the package, sneak out with a sweet roll or an apple, oblivious to her exasperated shouting behind him. But one day, she sat him down, made him take a cup of milk and buttered bread. He must have been about ten or eleven, and he'd grown nearly half a foot in what seemed like weeks. His mother took to feeding him nearly non-stop, exclaiming over his gangly frame.

So he sat there, satiating his nearly bottomless boy's appetite, as she unwrapped the butcher's paper to reveal what was inside. Liver, he thinks. But the boy he was nearly gagged to see that, once the white paper was slowly peeled away, the bloody mess that lay inside, raw and naked-looking. It was quite alright protected by pure white paper; even better, well-cooked, sliced with onions and potatoes; but that in-between state. Oh no.

He and Elsie Hughes, whatever they each felt inside, appropriate or not, had been wrapped in clean white paper all this time. He was sorely tempted by the fine meal he hoped they could make, together.

But how to get there?

He was relieved, and surprised to find that the person who gave him the answer was none other than Beryl Patmore.

oooOOOooo

Something must be done, she knows it. And that it's not up to her to determine what. Not in this world, in her lifetime.

What she does know is this: she loves him, oh, so dearly. Over the past year or so, she's allowed herself to really think about it, to really _feel_ it. Over the years, she'd not let herself linger (nor did her life allow it) on the future. And now, her mind can't seem to _stop_ wandering towards it.

She thought she knew the course of her life, laid out like a straight line before her, towards the inevitable.

She would work, happily and gratefully, until she could work no more.

She would send the bulk of her earnings to care for Becky, as long as her sister lived.

She would enjoy the companionship and friendship of those that meant the most to her – Mr. Carson, Anna, Mrs. Patmore, to name a few - within the framework provided by her position in life, as a woman in service.

But the world was changing, more quickly with every passing year. The king was on the wireless. _She_ was changing too. Expecting…more. Something else. Dare she? And, why not?

Even the immovable Charles Carson was changing. She cannot recall the number of his dressing-downs she'd been on the receiving end of over the decades, but it was many, and it never bothered him before to dole them out. And now; the openness in his face, when he talked about the war memorial, having her on his side, for them to be in agreement. That he wanted them firmly on the same side.

Not-so-casually, nervously asking her to consider investing in a property with him. For business reasons, naturally. As an investment. For their _future_ , financially speaking _._

He was acting like a besotted lad, coming courting.

And she, like a foolish green girl, opening the door for him. Accepting the folders with house schematics and prices, like they were bouquets of wildflowers.

Knowing all along, she couldn't hold up her end of the bargain, but enjoying the idea of it all far too much to say a word. But hoping, _wishing_ , that in the end, they'd both get what they were looking for.

oooOOOooo

"I think that's the one, then," he said, satisfied, as they left a lovely house with three bedrooms and a maid's room off the kitchen. It needed some work, but he could picture it. "Of course, we have to take all of the variables into consideration, and there's still the last on the list to view, but there was something about the house I liked very much, indeed."

"It was quite nice, I agree," she replied, somewhat subdued, he felt. A smile kept flitting on and off her face, like a butterfly.

"Are you quite alright, Mrs. Hughes? Perhaps we should stop and eat what Mrs. Patmore's packed for us, before looking at the next spot," he gestured to the hamper she was carrying. "We can take our lunch on the village green, a few blocks up."

"Yes, I'd like that," she answered, and suddenly her face cleared. "It's a lovely day, is it not, Mr. Carson?" And she grinned up at him in such a way that his heart dropped then jumped pleasantly in his chest.

Several lads on bicycles passed by on her on the lane, and she moved towards him, took his arm to make room for them. She kept her hand tucked into his elbow long after they rode out of view. He minded not in the least.

They arrived at the green and found a small table. As she began setting out the simple lunch the cook had packed for them, he mused that this first hurdle was almost overcome.

They would buy the property, together, and manage it, together, whilst they both still worked at Downton. And, in his retirement, which would likely come before hers…well, there was still a little time, then, before the next step, was there not? A chance to get…used…to their lives being linked together.

"A penny for your thoughts," she was grinning at him, holding a small glass of lemonade out. He took it, and they tucked into their sandwiches, people-watching as the unfamiliar folks in this village went about their day.

"There's something pleasant about sitting here, completely unmolested by every Tom, Dick and Harry that strolls by, don't you think, Mrs. Hughes?" If they were in Downton Village, there'd not be a chance they could enjoy a solo lunch like this in the green.

"Oh, I don't know, Mr. Carson. Are you trying to tell me you'd go for a life of anonymity, after all of these years in the limelight? Don't you think you'd miss the attention?" She smiled at him, her eyes dancing.

"I don't suppose, Mrs. Hughes, I'd mind a reduction in the amount of attention if the refinement of the source of it was carefully considered," he rejoined, raising his glass in a toast.

"Go on with you, then," her voice was tart, but her cheeks were flushed. Her bright eyes darted around the green, at the folks passing by, stopping, greeting each other, going about their business, and sighed.

"Do you ever wonder, Mr. Carson, about the lives of other folks? Just curious, like? Say, for example, look at that lad over there," she gestured discreetly to a man of about thirty, with sandy hair, who'd just gotten off the bus. He stood at the edge of the square, looking up the high street, a half-smile playing across his nervous-looking face. "What do you suppose he's doing?"

"Waiting for a woman," Carson answered, without hesitation.

"You seem so certain of yourself, then," she took a bite of her sandwich, glanced back over at the man in question.

"I am. He looks both nervous and happy, and keeps glancing up the street. Mark my words, Mrs. Hughes, every man has felt that way, and can recognize it in one of his own," he couldn't believe he'd been so bold, but she took it in stride.

"I guess time will tell, Mr. Carson. We must eat our lunch very slowly, I suppose, to see if you're right or not," she made a show of putting her sandwich down.

They did spend the next half hour or so quite contentedly, each picking out a passerby to muse over, and occasionally glancing over at the young blond man, who did appear to still be waiting on someone or something. Carson noticed every now and then the man snuck glances at the two of them, a small smile on his face.

They were just about finished repacking the hamper when Mrs. Hughes' hand on his wrist made his breath catch in his throat.

"You were right, Mr. Carson! Look there!" She nodded, and sure enough, a short, attractively rounded young lady, her dark curls cut in the chin-length style that was all the rage now, was rushing towards the patiently waiting man. As they gazed on them, she shouted out excitedly to him, waving a paper in her hand.

He took it from her, scanned it and whooped, grabbed the girl around the waist and swung her around, planting a kiss firmly on her mouth. It was all a bit much, he felt, in public in the middle of the day.

Then he glanced down at Elsie Hughes, and changed his mind. She was rapt, huge grin on her face.

"Good news, then," she said, turning towards him.

"Seems so. And good news is always worth the wait, wouldn't you say, Mrs. Hughes?"

oooOOOooo

She put the nearly empty picnic hamper back on one arm, paused for a moment, then after a brief moment – _oh, well, why not? -_ tucked her free arm into the crook of his elbow again. They were standing at the corner of the green, and he'd been reviewing the directions to the next prospective "investment property". Now he glanced up and looked at her for a long moment, so long she began to feel warm in places she didn't even know she had. She searched for something to say, but found herself at a loss, for once in her life.

They stood there for what seemed like an eternity, and she suddenly realized the young couple they'd been so playfully spying on were walking past them. They were chatting excitedly to each other, and she could hear a familiar lilt in the girl's voice that tugged at her heart and reminded her of her childhood. 

The couple caught her eye, and the young man tipped his hat at them.

"Good afternoon! Lovely day, is it not?"

"Good afternoon to you, as well. Indeed, a fine day," Mr. Carson replied.

Elsie smiled at the young woman. " _Guid efternuin_."

The girl's face lit up, and she laughed gleefully. " _Guid efternuin, ma'am. Ye'r scots?"_

"Aye, though I've not been back in many years," Elsie answered, smiling at the younger woman. It was difficult not to. She was a being bursting with happiness.

"Nae, me neither, I've got lots keepin' me in Yorkshire, these days," she smiled up at the sandy-haired man.

"As do I, my dear," she answered, aware of a sigh from Mr. Carson. "These last forty years, give or take."

"Let's tell them, shall we? I am about to burst, and we can't get word to me mam and dad until tomorrow, at least," the young woman squeezed her husband's arm.

"Strangers in the street? You're mad, but in the best possible way. Why not?" The sandy-haired man looked like he'd do just about anything for her.

"We're 'avin' a wee _bairn!_ Just found out, all confirmed! _"_ The girl squealed.

" _Weel done 'n' a' the best!"_ Elsie replied, taking her hand, while Mr. Carson looked like he was about to keel over. She bit her cheek to keep from laughing. Talking about pregnancy with a pair of young strangers, not quite his idea of polite conversation…

"We've shocked your husband, I believe," the young man said. "Sorry, sir, we're just giddy, I think, with the news. We've forgotten our manners."

Mr. Carson gathered himself. She wasn't sure if he was still reeling from the conversation or from being mistaken for her husband. "Not at all. It's quite exciting news, good news, which is always meant to be shared."

"Aye, and he had to wait so long for me! The doctor's office was full to the brim when I arrived, he was coolin' his heels for far too long!"

"We saw him," Elsie smiled at her, but her heart was pounding in her chest. He'd not corrected the young man about their relationship. This man who always wanted thing to be exactly so. To be proper. To be _appropriate._ "He _was_ a'waitin' for you, with baited breath, my dear."

"I noticed you two, as well," he responded. "I was trying to while away the time, humming every song I know, watching what everyone else was doing, to distract myself. You remind me of my parents, bless them, gone now these past few years, just enjoying each other's company and the day. We'll be on our way now, lots to talk about."

They said their good-byes, and Elsie's eyes followed them as they headed down the street together, chatting excitedly.

"A bright future to them, then, blessed young folk," she sighed, and held the crook of Mr. Carson's arm a bit tighter.

"A bright future doesn't have to be the sole domain of the young, Mrs. Hughes," Mr. Carson cleared his throat, glanced down at her again. She got the mad urge to reach up and stroke his cheek. She shook her head.

"No, I suppose you're right about that, Mr. Carson. Where're we off to now, then?"


	18. The Very Heart of It

**A/N: What can I say? I hope I did alright by them, and by you, dear readers, in the end.**

 **Xoxo, CeeCee**

Christmas Week, 1924

Elsie Hughes walked through Downton Village as the snow slowly started falling around her. She stopped in her tracks, though she had little to no time to spare, and gazed up at the fluffy flakes swirling around the bare tree tops. She glanced around and saw others doing the same. A snowy Christmas wasn't guaranteed in Yorkshire, but it felt quite right every time there was one.

But no time for dilly-dallying today. By all rights she should have sent one of the junior staff members on her errands, or, smarter still, have all of the packages sent up to the house, but she needed a bit of time on her own, alone, in the crisp December air.

Though neither of them had spoken much of it since, (not that there really been time to, given Mr. Bates' disappearance, Anna's reappearance, and the general sense of chaos that went along with the holidays), her confession to Mr. Carson weighed heavily on her mind. She was…mortified. Disappointed. Terribly sad, if truth be told. She'd called it a dream, and she meant it.

 _"There's no place for me in the project…"_

Those words had stung her to say. Oh, how they had stung. And she'd been a fool, carried away by a dream and possibly, a dream of a dream, of someday, somehow.

Except.

Right before they'd been interrupted by Mr. Bates and bad news about Anna's case, and then the house had been shocked by Mr. Bates' sudden departure, there had been a moment…

Her dear Mr. Carson had looked defeated, and she was awash in disappointment and shame. She scrounged for a silver lining: could he still buy the place without her investment?

And there it was, the silver lining she'd blindly reached for: he _could_ have purchased the place without her. He hadn't wanted to. He had wanted them to throw in together. Oh, he was carrying on purchasing the place, but what he had wanted – really wanted – was to throw in with her.

But did he still?

All of those years that she'd never mentioned Becky hung heavy on her mind. And now, he knew her for what she really was: not his equal, in status or security or situation in life. A pauper, she'd called herself, and she wasn't far off. A woman who would have to toil until the end of her days, or her sister's. And a liar, or near as, to boot.

However. Maybe…none of it mattered. Maybe, in the end, all he wanted was…her. Could it be possible?

She hurried to her final stop, where she'd carefully selected his Christmas gift. Hopefully, it could tell him all of the things she was unable to say herself.

oooOOOooo

He truly thought he had all of his ducks in a row, everything he needed. There were pages of paperwork, of course, but when he suggested to the agents that he wanted two names listed as owners, the men said it wouldn't be any problem, as long as he had all of the pertinent information. The second owner would, of course, have to sign, but he could consider it as good as done, since the money had been deposited and everything else was in place.

"And who do we list as the second, Mr. Carson?"

"Elsie May Car-Hughes, if you please," his heart sped up at his near slip. He was forging ahead, despite the fact that every fiber of his being was shrieking in fear. "Elsie May Hughes." He repeated, this time more clearly.

"Elsie? Do we know if that's it, or is it short for something, Elizabeth or Elspeth, maybe?"

He was flummoxed. He simply didn't know. "Well…I'm not quite sure. Can we amend it later, if we need to?"

One of the agents grinned at him. "You're buyin' a house for a lady and it's Christmastime, Mr. Carson. I guess we can pin down the details in the New Year. I have what I need, for the moment."

"Thank you for your understanding, gentlemen, and a Happy Christmas to you both."

He left the estate office and opened the door into a world being quietly blanketed in white. The snow feel steadily and softly as he made his way back to Downton, greeted and called to by happy villagers setting about their holiday business, big and small.

He wondered, how many others, rushing around, taken up by the chaos and joy of the holidays, also held secrets like his close their hearts? Massive things, dreams, that no one else could come close to guessing? He was certain that not a soul in Downton, the house or the village, knew that he hoped to have a fiancé by the New Year.

But, he supposed, in the end, only one person's thoughts really mattered. And he'd just realized he wasn't entirely sure of her rightful Christian name.

What else didn't he know?

His heart ached with shame that he had pushed her to reveal the existence of her sister, after years of silence. He knew how much she valued her independence, her self-sufficiency. How then, did he express to her that he wanted to care for her, and for them to care for each other?

The uncertainty of it all terrified him, to be sure. But he was pressing on, no matter what.

oooOOOooo

"They visited every pub in York, then?" She was flabbergasted. Mr. Carson stood there, recounting was Mr. Molesley and Miss Baxter had told his lordship. She stood, surrounded by the piles of gifts she'd been contentedly wrapping when Mr. Molesley had interrupted her and Mr. Carson earlier this morning.

"Well, not _every_ pub. Something upwards of sixty or seventy, they said, until they landed on the right one. I do believe, Mrs. Hughes, his lordship is getting word to Mr. Bates even as we speak," a smile played on Mr. Carson's face. "Now, I must be off, much to do, but I thought you'd like to know."

"Of course, and I am glad you told me. Quite extraordinary of them, don't you think Mr. Carson?" She shook her head, mulling over the careful thoughtfulness of the project; it made her heart sing with its kindness. She could feel herself swallowing tears. Sometimes, it was good to be reminded of goodness. Of charity.

He was leaving, nodding distractedly, but stopped. She brushed at her eyes though no tears had yet fallen. Something softened in his face. "You're right, of course, Mrs. Hughes. Sometimes, two people can change the course of justice…or someone else's life."

"Now, we best get on about it, wouldn't you say?" She collected herself, rose and headed into the hallway with him. "Time to throw ourselves into the fray." And with a last smile, he headed away from her, already calling out instructions to Mr. Barrow and Andy. She turned in the other direction, headed towards the kitchen, and nearly ran into Miss Baxter.

The woman's unflappable serenity always struck Elsie first, especially given her tumultuous past. Now, the sight of her filled her with gratitude.

"My apologies, Mrs. Hughes. My mind was somewhere else," she smiled and patted a box filled to the brim with jewelry. "Her ladyship wanted this all cleaned in anticipation for the holidays."

"Not at all, Miss Baxter, carry on," Elsie paused, and then placed her hand on the other woman's wrist. "Mr. Carson's just told me what you and Mr. Molesley have done for Mr. Bates. I must say, Miss Baxter, very little surprises me at my age, and even less in a good way. But your diligence, your kindness, well, it's quite extraordinary, it is."

Miss Baxter's cheeks reddened, her smile expanded slightly. "It was all Mr. Molesley's idea. It was _his_ kindness, _his_ diligence, Mrs. Hughes. I can only take credit for keeping him company."

"Well, I'm not entirely sure of that, but the pair of you did something quite remarkable," Elsie grinned at the younger woman.

"I thank you for that, Mrs. Hughes. I am only glad that we've been able to be useful, thanks to Mr. Molesley's strength and bravery," she drifted away towards the stairs, and Elsie gazed after her. _Strong and brave…_ she shook her head. Mr. Molesley, who always seemed to be at the butt end of a joke. Strong and brave. And yet. He was. It just took Miss Baxter to see it.

Amazing, what love could see.

oooOOOooo

"And is that…all…we're celebrating?" His heart was rushing in his ears. He'd done it, and now his heart was in her hands. She was three feet from him, one hand on her chest, her face an unreadable stew of emotions. He's worried that she's teasing him, that she's not taking what he's said seriously.

Then she moved forward, with purpose. She placed the hand that's been on her heart on the sleeve of his livery, squeezed. Gazed up at him.

"Of course I'll marry you, ye old booby. I thought ye'd never ask," she says the words he's been longing to hear with utter certainty in her voice.

And then he feels the tears coming, but he's unashamed. He's too happy and proud and bursting with joy to feel embarrassed by a few happy tears.

"Well, then, Mrs. Hughes, I am quite pleased to drink to that," he said, and she stepped away to clink their punch glasses together, and she lets go of his arm in the process, to his regret.

"I'll not make a speech –"

"Well thank goodness for that," she interjected, rolling her eyes. They both looked at each other for a moment, then started laughing. Now they both were crying. She wiped her tears away, continued. "Very well, go on with you. I suppose you've earned the right to a few words."

"You've made me very happy, Elsie Hughes. Not just tonight, but for a very long time. I will endeavor to return the favor for as long as I am able," he wanted to gather her in his arms, whisper how much he loved her, over and over, but the weight of forty years, and the entire house was upon them. They couldn't be gone too long, he knew. Their privacy was temporary, as hundreds of interrupted conversations in this very room attested.

She was smiling at him, speechless. She who always had something to say. He was afraid to move, to break the magic between them in this moment. Then she did. She put her cup down on his desk, and took his, set it aside.

And before he quite knew what was happening, she was reaching a hand up and brushing it across his cheek. It lingered there for a moment, and he leaned into it, relishing the unexpected tenderness of it.

"I've wanted to do that for far too long," she said softly as she removed her hand, in a voice he'd never heard before. She shook her head, as if to clear it. "Now, we best get back, don't you think? It wouldn't do for them to notice we're missing at this juncture."

And she went to the doorway, looking back expectantly at him, waiting for him to follow, a smile on her face.

oooOOOooo

They rejoined the crowd in the great hall unnoticed, with the sounds of carols floating around them, the fairy lights on the Christmas tree twinkling like fallen stars.

Her head was spinning.

Her heart was full.

She risked glancing at Charlie Carson, a smile tugging the corner of her mouth. He smiled in return. The warmth in his eyes sent darts of warmth through various parts of her, some known and others less explored.

They stayed towards the back of the crowd, against the wall. And she was pleased and grateful when his hand found hers, his fingers twining together with hers, a feeling both wonderfully new and fundamentally right.

"Happy Christmas, Mrs. Hughes," he grinned down at her, looking like a man who had everything he ever wanted. And in his case, it was her.

"Aye, it is indeed, Mr. Carson."


	19. (Everything Except A) Silent Night

Christmas Eve, 1924 (Right where we left off!)

He couldn't remember feeling so happy, at least not for a very, very long time. He was nearly bursting with it, and despite the fact that discretion was like breathing for him, he felt that he was wearing his joy on his sleeve, that anyone in that crowded hall would immediately be able to read his heart, and know that the remarkable woman standing by his side, hand in his, was now _his_ , to have and to hold.

As he gazed at Lady Mary's serene, beautiful face, singing "O Holy Night" and felt Elsie's fingers twined with his, he wished time could stop in this very moment, at least briefly.

But, he couldn't, of course.

The side door he and Mrs. Hughes had come through not fifteen minutes prior popped open. Anna's face appeared, smiling, gesturing to them. Everything that had seemed gray about her these past few weeks was now golden. The lady's maid quickly shut the door once she knew she'd caught their attention. He knew there could only be one reason for it. He glanced down at Elsie, reluctantly dropping her hand.

She reached out and gave his a quick squeeze, before letting it go again. She may have winked at him, even, but he wasn't entirely sure.

"There's only one thing that could have Anna looking like that," she murmured to him.

"His lordship got the good word where it needed to go, in time for a very happy Christmas for the Bateses," he responded.

"Are we going to see Mr. Bates, then?" Suddenly Mrs. Patmore was at his other elbow.

"Where did you come from?" Elsie spluttered.

"I was standing right over yonder this whole time. I was the one who pointed Mr. Bates in Anna's direction," she shook her head at both of them. "You two would've seen him come in yerselves, but you both disappeared during the carols. Gone for a while, by my estimation." She raised her eyebrows at both of them, and they exchanged glances.

"Oh, thank god, it's about time," she grinned up at them, bustled ahead, surreptitiously opening the side door. "I'll expect an appropriate amount of details tomorrow during tea."

They paused, looked after her for a second. Then Elsie covered her open mouth, laughing.

"Nothing stays a secret for long, does it, Mr. Carson?"

"Not at Downton, it seems, Mrs. Hughes."

oooOOOooo

"Mr. Bates!" She exclaimed, rushing up to plant a kiss on his cheek. Anna was attached to her husband's side, his cane-free arm encircling her waist.

"Mrs. Hughes. Happy Christmas. It's good to be back," he grinned at her. "Mr. Carson, Mrs. Patmore."

"The prodigal returns," Charlie intoned, shaking the other man's hand, his face breaking into a broad smile. "And I sincerely hope it's for the last time."

"Never mind him," she interjected, smiling playfully up at her new fiancé, patting his arm. She found she hardly cared what, if anything, the other three would read into it. Mrs. Patmore already suspected, and the other two were utterly oblivious to anything except each other. "You must be tired and hungry after such a trip."

"And this is where I come in, I suppose," Mrs. Patmore. "Come now, both of you, I'll pack you a Christmas hamper to rival all Christmas hampers to take back to the cottage with you."

"But, Mrs. Hughes, I must stay. What about Lady Mary, and Lady Edith?" Even with her words, Anna didn't lessen her grip on Mr. Bates' arm.

"Don't you worry about that, I'll take care of Lady Mary myself, and Miss Baxter can help Lady Edith after taking care of her ladyship. She's practically self-sufficient, Lady Edith, modern woman of the world and all," she started shooing them away.

"You'll let them all know Mr. Bates is back, and we'll be here first thing in the morning?" Anna came over, briefly hugged Mrs. Hughes. "Thank you. For everything."

"Go on with you then. And as Mr. Carson says, let this be the last of the dramatic arrivals – and departures!"

She and Charlie stood side by side, watching the Bateses make their way to the kitchen and Mrs. Patmore's promised goodies. She was a shade closer to him than she might have been usually, but at all times aware that the door behind them could open at any moment.

"I do believe we've gotten more than our fair share of Christmas miracles this year," she glanced over at him. And was surprised to see he looked like a boy whose pudding had been taken away before he was finished.

"Why whatever is the matter, Mr. Carson?"

He looked at her for a long moment, sighed, glanced back at the door leading to the great hall, and then down towards the kitchen, where the others had disappeared. He moved towards her, and she was suddenly very aware of the size of him, this man who was now hers to call her own.

"Well, I suppose, while I am very _glad_ that Mr. Bates returned, especially in time for Christmas, and especially for Anna's sake, he rather interrupted…the…celebration." He face was going quite red, and she could feel hers warming sympathetically.

"We're _always_ interrupted, Mr. Carson. Can you imagine the number of conversations we've never finished over the years?" She took a deep breath, and stepped firmly into his space. Placed her hand once again on his arm.

"I've something for you, for Christmas. A gift. Once all of the…celebrating…has settled down, and I've gotten the ladies sorted out, and Mrs. Patmore's got Christmas breakfast lined up, and…." She trailed off, and started laughing. Historically, Christmas Eve was a late night that bled into early morning for many of the staff, especially the two of them. And now she was down a ladies' maid, if only for the evening.

She was glad to see a smile on his face, as well as a new, tender look that sent lovely shivers through her belly. "Yes, indeed, at this rate, we'll have a moment sometime in the new year, Mrs. Hughes, if we're lucky." He placed his hand over hers, and seemed loath to move. He sighed, continued. "I best find his lordship, tell him that Mr. Bates has returned."

"Aye, and I'll find Miss Baxter and the ladies," she added and the moment broke. They moved in unison back towards the door with the ease of years managing this house together.

Before he swung the door open, he frowned at her. "Mrs. Hughes, I've not gotten you a Christmas present, I'm ashamed to say."

She rolled her eyes at him, feeling exasperation and love in equal measure. "Ye daft, dear man. You gave me a _house._ " She pushed the door open and they entered the busy, celebrating hall. "Ye also gave me a _fiancé."_

And with one last warm look, they parted ways, for the moment.

oooOOOooo

So it was, many busy hours later, she finally made her way back to the servants' hall for good. The glitter, the business and busyness of Christmas Eve, the children and their stockings, helping the ladies off to bed…well, she was tired, to her old bones, but she hardly cared. She felt like she was floating, really, and the tiredness was just another layer added to the hazy magic of the last twelve hours.

She passed the kitchen, hurrying her steps as much as her muddled self would allow, and Mrs. Patmore stepped out as she walked by. Her friend looked as dazed and tired as she felt.

"Well now, a Happy Christmas to us, then, Mrs. Patmore," she placed her hand on the other woman's shoulder.

"Is it _still_ Christmas?" Mrs. Patmore exclaimed, and both women started giggling. Elsie was afraid she wouldn't stop, she was so giddy with excitement and nervousness and happiness and exhaustion. "Neither of the Bateses' are allowed to go to prison again and return in the middle of the night or a holiday, yeh hear?"

And Elsie gasped, doubled over. It wasn't the least bit funny, except it just _was_ , all the more so because of the certainty she felt that John and Anna Bates were home for good. They were both wiping tears from their eyes when Elsie finally felt she could speak again.

"I can hardly believe Mr. Carson isn't out here shushing us," she said, his name causing her heart to flutter a bit.

"He's asleep," Mrs. Patmore whispered, as if it would make any difference.

Elsie felt as if she'd been slapped. He'd not waited for her before retiring? Even just to say goodnight before they parted ways until the morning? What about his gift? "He went up to bed?"

Mrs. Patmore looked like she was going to start laughing again. "Don't go lookin' like ye've been skewered through the heart, yeh ninny. He fell asleep in his chair, in his study. A'waitin' for _you_ is all one can assume."

"Well then," her annoyance melted quickly into fond tenderness. "I don't suppose we should wake him?"

" _I'm_ certainly not," Mrs. Patmore retorted. " _I_ am taking myself up to bed, catching forty winks, splashing cold water on my face, preparing the family an obscenely extravagant breakfast, _then_ coming to your office where you'll tell me the whole story if I have to pry it out of you, word by word."

Elsie paused, then started giggling again herself. "Alright then. You'll never get the _whole_ story, mind you, but you might get enough of it to be satisfied."

"And what _you_ do in the meanwhile, is for naught but the mice to know. Happy Christmas, Mrs. Hughes," with a laugh and a wave, she was gone.

She smiled to herself, and went over to his study. The door was very slightly ajar, as if he wanted some privacy, but not to miss her returning downstairs.

He was deeply asleep in his chair, his long legs stuck out in front of him, his hands crossed over his chest. She gazed down at his sleeping face, realizing with a start she'd be seeing it nightly soon enough. The intimacy of the idea terrified her, but it was mixed with a level of tenderness she didn't think was possible.

She would see him tomorrow – rather, later today – and maybe they would be able to fit in an interrupted conversation or two, she could give him her gift. The Bateses' return would add another level of revelry to the Christmas festivities. She knew it would be a good day, because she would share as much of it with _him_ as she could.

But for now, she must go.

And only because she knew he was deeply asleep, and the hallways were empty, and it was only her, Elsie Hughes, newly betrothed to the big, slumbering, infuriating, wonderful man before her, she reached out and brushed her thumb across his temple. Leaned over and placed a kiss on his forehead, breathing in the spicy, masculine sleepiness of him.

"Happy Christmas, Charlie," she barely spoke, and it was like a blessing. And then she was gone.


	20. Home Again

Home Again

Christmas Day, 1924

Charles Carson hurried down the stairs on Christmas morning, just after dawn. He'd awoken with a start in the wee, blue-black hours of the night, in the large chair in his study, the house so still and so silent and so peaceful around him.

He had dragged himself off to bed, expecting to be asleep again before his head hit the pillow. But it was all for naught. He couldn't get the image of Elsie's face, the light in her eyes, when she realized what he had been asking her. The warm touch of her hand against his cheek. The feeling of her fingers laced with his, a secret between them in the crowded great hall.

He had tossed and turned, feeling much like he had over fifty years ago, as a young man taken by a dark-haired beauty with a wide smile. Back then, the days, the hours, the minutes were framed around catching a glimpse of her as he came off the stage, or walking alongside her in the park, their shoulders barely touching. The first time she'd taken his hand, he'd not slept for days.

Young Charlie Carson's heart and body had ached for the love and touch of Alice Neal, but it had been a useless pursuit. He'd always thought he was glad to set that part of himself aside for good, but he realized now how foolish that was.

This terrible, dizzy delirium he currently found himself in made him feel he'd broken into his lordship's wine cellar, decanted a particularly fine vintage, then drank it all himself. But unlike his love for Alice, which burned quick and fast and bright, what he felt for Elsie had been burning low inside him for years, embers just waiting for the right prodding to fully alight. He wasn't sure how his old body would stand it, but it felt somehow wonderful, even though he wasn't sure how he was going to make it through the day without falling into his Christmas pudding.

It was as if the air around him was _singing_ along with his heart.

Wait.

There actually _was_ the sound of singing floating through the air, coming from the kitchen, Daisy's girlish voice mixing with Mrs. Patmore and Mr. Molesley's huskier tones, along with several others.

 _"Good King Wenceslas looked out, on the Feast of Stephen…"_

And it was probably the boyish, besotted, overtired way he felt this Christmas morning, but he began singing himself as he walked into the room, the joy of belting out the traditional carol filling his being, 

" _When the snow lay 'round about, deep and crisp and even;_

 _Brightly shone the moon that night, tho' the frost was cruel,_

 _When a poor man came in sight, gath'ring winter fuel…"_

The kitchen burst into shouts and cheers and the song continued, verse to verse, as Mrs. Patmore, Daisy and the other kitchen maids busily preparing breakfast for the family, Mr. Molesley in the corner singing along, Andy moving back and forth through the servants' hall.

Right before the final verse, Mrs. Hughes and Miss Baxter appeared in the far doorway. His heart swelled when Elsie smiled across the room at him. She looked as if maybe she hadn't slept very much either, her face softly lined and dreamy-eyed. She looked beautiful.

The cries of "Happy Christmas" from all around hadn't even died down when a mild voice piped up from behind the two women in the doorway.

"Don't stop singing on my account," Mr. Bates grinned at all of them, then at his wife, who was standing next to him, shaking snow off of her coat.

The Christmas wishes switched to delighted greetings, and Mr. Molesley and Daisy started a round of "Joy to the World". Elsie was bustling her way through the staff towards him.

"I like hearing you sing. Happy Christmas," she looked up at him, briefly touched the sleeve of his coat.

"The happiest," he sighed, and just looked at her for a long moment.

And was surprised to have it interrupted by Mrs. Patmore, pushing cups of strong tea into each of their hands.

"Off with the pair of you, for a few minutes at least," she was smiling. "No one'll notice you with all of this ruckus, at least until breakfast time. Go on, shoo!"

He felt himself flush but Elsie just shook her head after the cook. "Well, Mr. Carson? Shall we take a moment away from the ruckus, as Mrs. Patmore suggests, possibly starting gossip that rivals Mr. Bates' return?"

"I've said it before, many a time, but it bears repeating: 'impertinence, thy name is Elsie Hughes,'" he smiled down at her.

"Actually, thanks to you, it won't be for very long," she walked primly away towards her office, and he followed. As if he'd do anything else.

oooOOOooo

Once they were in her office, she gazed around at all of the gifts still strewn about that needed to be doled out or placed under the tree upstairs, in a few instances. She smiled, loving the way the piles of presents made the space cozier, warmer.

They took a seat across from each other at the little side table, where they'd chatted, plotted, argued, rejoiced, discussed, devised, gossiped and otherwise gotten into each other's hair for the past thirty years or so.

They both sat and sipped their tea in the near-quiet. Elsie could hear strains of "O Come All Ye Faithful" beginning in the hall and they grinned at each other. And then he reached out and took her hand in his.

Neither of them said a word.

They just sat there, listening to the muffled carols and happy chatter from the staff.

She sipped the strong, good tea her friend had made for her, and enjoyed the warmth and pressure of his hand in hers.

She kept expecting the door to pop open, or for someone to rap on it, like sudden gunfire. But, Christmas miracles of miracles, it didn't, and no one did.

He finally cleared his throat, and for some reason, her heart started pounding. She glanced over at him. He looked almost bashful, but finally spoke:

"You mentioned…you mentioned you had a Christmas gift for me?"

She grinned, and her heart soared nervously. "Aye! Indeed I do. And I best be giving it to you now, before our luck runs out," she stood, setting her teacup down. Her eyes scanned the boxes, until they settled on a smallish one on her desk. "Ah, here it 'tis."

She sat back down and pushed the box across the table. She suddenly felt very shy about giving it to him. She had been certain, so certain of it, when she selected it. After her confession about Becky, about the sadness in his eyes when they couldn't go in together on the house. She kept reminding herself she was a woman, and she was fundamentally poor, and that if there was action to be taken, it had to be _his_ action, as the man. The world insisted on it. But _her_ pride _insisted_ on some form of expressing her heart.

And now her heart was in the box. No; that was wrong. Her heart was pounding in her chest, her heart was sitting across the table from her.

"It's not a house, or a marriage proposal," she said quietly. "But it's as true as I could do, before I knew either of those things were entirely possible, though I suppose I had hope."

He looked at her for a long minute, opened the wrapping carefully, lifting the lid off the box, revealing a simple, attractive silver pocket watch inside. He picked it up, and inspected it, first noting the inscription on the front, merely his initials. He turned it over, and that's when her heart leapt into her throat. She could see him reading what she'd had gotten inscribed there:

 _So many moments, never enough time. ~EMH_

And when he looked back up, there were tears in his eyes. She felt the same in her own. He stood and switched his watch on his chain for hers. She stood, stepped closer to him. She suddenly felt the need to explain herself, to frame the gift in some way –

"I suppose I was hoping that –"

"I love you," he interrupted her. "With all of my heart."

"And I love you, Charles Carson. I have for a very long time."

And then his arms were around her, and she leaned into him, pressing her face against his chest, smelling a mixture of aftershave and soap and silver polish and tea and his own smell, at once so familiar and exciting, and it was the smell of coming home.


	21. Good News Travels Fast

Good News Travels Fast

 **A/N: Guys, thanks so much for all of the reviews and PMs. I really love writing this story, and love your responses to it. Quick, informal survey: I am considering addressing some of the complex and interesting intimacy issues between these two, especially since I am DEFINITELY writing about their honeymoon. Should I explore some M scenes? Or keep this firmly in the T category? What are you feeling? TIA, ~ CeeCee**

The Last Week of December, 1924

Although there was something that felt deliciously illicit about keeping their engagement a secret, Charles decided a few days after Christmas that he really wanted to tell his lordship before anyone else in the house knew. The part of him that was more honest with himself was that he was bursting with pride and love that this woman would agree to marry him, and he wanted everyone to know. However, his lordship should know _first._ He would go up before breakfast and see the head of the house in his dressing room, to share the good news.

He was on his way when he supposed he really ought to let Elsie know what he was doing. He doubled back down the stairs and the hall to her office, perfunctorily knocking on her door before opening it.

She was seated at her small table with Mrs. Patmore, both of them giggling over cups of tea and toast with butter and jam. He felt irritated by the sight of them, because he knew what it meant.

"Good morning, Mr. Carson!" She exclaimed, that smile he loved so much beaming up at him. Perhaps he wasn't quite as annoyed as he thought. "Would you care to join us?"

"No, no, take my seat, I must be off, but I _am_ glad we finally got 'round to our cuppa, Mrs. Hughes," the cook stood, clearing away her dishes. When she walked by him, she glanced up, and with great sincerity said, "My congratulations to you both, Mr. Carson."

He shut the door behind her and his annoyance reared its head again.

"You told Mrs. Patmore our news? Without consulting me?" He heard himself, even realized that he nearly forgot to consider _her_ before he headed to discuss the same with his lordship, but it didn't lessen his frustration that the cook knew of his engagement before the lord of the manor did. It simply wasn't _appropriate._

She rolled her eyes at him, sipped her tea. Took a bite of her toast. "I suppose I did, _technically_ , but she already knew, in any case." She didn't seem very bothered by his tone.

"But – but – but his _lordship_ doesn't even know yet. I was actually coming here to ensure that you were comfortable that I do so _before_ I did," he sat across from her, raising his eyebrow. Honestly, she didn't look the least bit ashamed of herself, which bothered him all the more. He also noticed she had toast crumbs and a bit of jam on her lips, which made him feel bothered in a decidedly different way. But that was irrelevant, at least for now.

She put her toast down, wiped her mouth with her napkin. "Well, then, I _am_ sorry I didn't consult with you before telling _our friend_ about our engagement. I mean it," her tone was soft, and he was inclined to forgive her. Then she continued, and a bit of steel entered her voice. "But I don't see why his lordship needed to know before she did."

"Because, because, she's the cook, and he's Lord Robert Crawley, Earl of Grantham! _That's_ why! There's a way to do these things, Mrs. Hughes, with the proper amount of propriety and respect," he could hear his voice rising in volume and abruptly stopped speaking.

She took a few deep breaths, looked at him. He knew she was angry, and somehow, that made him slightly less so. She folded her hands together, and squeezed them tightly, looking down at them. He reached out, and put his hand over hers.

She looked up, quickly, and he was glad to see a small smile flit on and off her face.

"I'm glad you did that, Mr. Carson. I really am. We're _always_ going to bump against each other on this, you and I. I don't think it will ever change; we're each too set in our ways for that. The best we can do is hope to understand the other's position on it. I told Beryl Patmore that you'd proposed, and I accepted – that we love each other – (oh, how those words made his heart sing!) – mostly because she already knew, as I've said; she's known us too long to _not_ know. But also because she's our friend, she's _my_ friend. It was her, no one else, certainly not anyone upstairs, who went to Dr. Clarkson's with me all that time ago, when I thought I was sick, I thought I might be _dying,_ and she held my hand, and cried for me, and cried _with_ me, when it all turned out alright in the end. I told her first, because she's the person _I_ wanted to share the news with first."

"And you don't think I should tell his lordship before the others, before the staff?" Her words moved him, but he wanted what he wanted – to tell Lord Grantham. It would make their engagement official, as it should be. It would make him _proud_ to share the news with the master of this house.

"You misunderstand me," she shook her head, and placed one of her hands over his, so his larger hand was sandwiched between each of hers. "We each should reveal the news to those who are most important to us; neither of us has to understand the other's choice; we merely have to _respect_ it."

"Then I trust you have no objection if I go and speak to him now, before breakfast?" They both stood at the same time, dropping their hands to their sides.

"Not in the least. I know his lordship will be happy for us. And more importantly, _you_ will be happy to tell him," she smiled again, and this time it lingered on her face. "As I was, to tell Mrs. Patmore."

"I, too, am sorry. I shouldn't have…attacked…you on this quite so harshly," he said. "I know I've said it before, but I don't like when we disagree," he frowned down at her a little. He never liked discord between them, and he felt it even more strongly now.

"I can't say I do, either, but it would be impossible for us to agree on everything all the time," she responded, smiling up at him. "And in any case, it might get a tad boring if we aligned on every single subject, don't you think Mr. Carson?"

"I could never think of you as boring, Mrs. Hughes," he grinned back at her, and relaxed a little. Her eyes were gleaming with the mischief that was always lurking there.

"Nor I you, Mr. Carson. But think of how dull things would be between us if, say, we both wanted to tell _Lady Mary_ first about our engagement. Now, you best be off, breakfast will be ready soon."

oooOOOooo

They were both certain their news would spread quickly both upstairs and down (and, to the village beyond), but they may have underestimated quite _how_ fast, or how much interest it would generate. She got the first dose of new-found attention later that morning.

Mr. Carson had come into the servants' hall breakfast and given her a small smile and nod which she took as confirmation that his lordship now knew his two most senior staff members were now going to be husband and wife. Otherwise, those first few hours had passed quite like the past few days: uneventful except the occasional long glance at or from her new fiancé and a general, pleasant distractedness of body and mind she remembered from decades ago, when lads had begun coming courtin'.

And then she was walking past one of the tack rooms downstairs. Both Bateses' were there, each working on a set of shoes. Mr. Bates glanced up and smiled at her, his eyes crinkling.

"Ah, Mrs. Hughes. I hear congratulations are in order," he grinned as she stopped in the doorway. Anna looked up, smiled at her, then her husband. John Bates always made Elsie Hughes think of a giant, semi-tamed bear. Most of the time, kind, thoughtful, soft and gentle, but don't go poking him with a stick. Not if you valued your life.

"Thank you, Mr. Bates," she suddenly felt a bit exposed. Happy, but shy, nonetheless.

Anna stood and walked over to her, placing a hand on her arm. She leaned over and kissed Elise on the cheek. "We're so happy for you both," Anna's eyes shimmered with tears, and Elsie gave her a brief hug.

"A lot to be happy about this Christmas," John Bates' eyes followed his wife warmly as she returned to her task. "If you ask me, I think a man could do far worse than to find a wife here at Downton." His eyes twinkled.

"John!" Anna gasped, shot him a look. " _Mr. Bates_ , honestly."

His face stayed serene, but his eyes still held mischief. "It's a sound observation, don't you think? Maybe I'll have a conversation with Mr. Molesley later, help him get sorted out."

Anna looked up again and threw her polishing rag at him, as the three of them started laughing.

oooOOOooo

Charles walked into the drawing room in anticipation of tea time, keeping an eye on what Andy as he set everything out. He liked the lad, but wanted to make sure all was up to snuff. The new footman arranged everything to his specifications and left Carson to await the ladies, possibly his lordship and Tom Branson.

Robert Crawley was, in fact, the first to arrive, bounding in with that almost boyish energy he had, even as a man in his late fifties. Carson felt deep affection for the master of Downton, even though he didn't always understand his lordship's progressive tendencies. His humanity and fairness shone through his sense of tradition.

"Ah, Carson!" He came over and slapped his butler heartily on the back. "You'll have to forgive me, but the sight of you brings quite the smile to my face today. Not that I'm not glad to see you under normal circumstances, but I am just _so_ pleased for you both. Good man! I've not seen the lady in question to offer her my congratulations; I'll have to make a point of it," he poured himself some tea.

"Who are we congratulating, and why?" Lady Cora came in, followed closely by Lady Mary. Each woman offered her cheek to Lord Grantham for a kiss. "Edith won't be down until dinner, she's on the phone with London, though Tom said he would be."

"Cora, I've not had the chance to tell you – Carson is getting married!" His lordship clapped his hands together in delight. Carson was getting slightly embarrassed (though secretly rather pleased) by his employer's enthusiasm.

His wife and daughter's reactions to the exclaimed news could not have been more different. Each lady was just about to be seated with her tea. Lady Cora leapt to her feet; Lady Mary plopped down onto the settee, looking like someone who'd been slapped. They both spoke at the same time.

"What?"

"Oh, Carson. What wonderful news!" Lady Grantham was squeezing his arm but Carson was concerned about Lady Mary, who had her hand to her chest. She caught his glance, her dark eyes wide. "Mary, aren't you the least bit pleased?"

"Of…of course I am," Mary stood, walked over, gazed up at him, her eyes searching his face. "I am delighted. What wonderful news, Carson. You must be so happy." A smile landed on her lips, was gone instantly.

"Mary, whatever is the matter? You're acting as if Carson tendered his resignation rather than announced his engagement," Robert Crawley was looking at his daughter in consternation.

"Don't they amount to the same thing when coming from the butler of a great house?" She retorted. Suddenly Carson understood and was deeply moved. Lady Mary thought he was leaving Downton, perhaps retiring, to get married.

Lord Robert started speaking but Cora interjected, "Oh, Mary! I don't think Carson is leaving us, are you Carson? I have a feeling his future bride is here in this house, as we speak."

"Well, now, did someone go and tell you before I was able to you? I thought you were at the Dower House this morning visiting Mama!" Lord Grantham exclaimed, perplexed.

"No, Robert, but unless I am greatly mistaken –"

"You cannot know unless someone has told you –"

"Women pick up on these things, Robert, you must –"

Mary rolled her eyes at her parents' bickering and turned to Carson. He grinned at her, raised an eyebrow. "I am marrying Mrs. Hughes, m'lady." He inclined his head, with another smile.

"Mrs. Hughes! Well, that's wonderful, then!" Mary replied, her eyes lighting up. "As long as we're not losing you, Carson. Lest you break my heart, you know."

"Well I doubt that Carson and Mrs. Hughes are getting married to convenience _you,_ Mary," her mother responded. "I truly am so pleased for you, Carson, you and Mrs. Hughes. If you need anything, anything at all, when it comes to wedding preparation, do not hesitate to let us know." And she turned back to her husband.

"Well, I _am_ very happy for you, Carson, though I suppose you cannot blame me for being glad my champion is staying here at Downton, where you belong. Mrs. Hughes is rather lucky, isn't she?"

"It is _I_ who is lucky, m'lady, and I will endeavor each day to ensure that I earn my good fortune," he raised one eyebrow at her, and her tart expression softened a little.

"Carson, any woman who can cause you to look as you do in this moment deserves any praise you lavish on her," she paused, and continued. "Mrs. Hughes does do things her own way, doesn't she? You must be drawn to us rebels, then, Carson."

"It would seem so, m'lady," he smiled at her, realizing that, while she and Elsie were nearly as different as two women could possibly be, she wasn't wrong.

"Carson, in love. It suits you," she stood on tiptoe, as she had many times when she was a girl, and kissed his cheek lightly. "Congratulations, my champion."

oooOOOooo

She knew the minute she walked into the crowded servants' hall just prior to dinner and the general chatter literally stopped, like a faucet being turned off, that _everyone_ knew. The entire table looked expectantly at her, then at the entryway to the hallway, where Mr. Carson would ostensibly be appearing momentarily.

She sighed, and sat, and ignored all of them. She placed her napkin on her lap and waited, her heart pounding quickly in her chest. Mr. Carson came into the room a few minutes later, and all the chairs scraped back as everyone stood. The silence was deafening as the staff looked from him to her and back again.

"Well? What is the matter with all of you? I feel like the snake charmer at a Turkish bazaar," he sat and began serving himself dinner. A low, murmuring conversation finally started and she whispered to him without looking at him.

"They _know._ "

"What? _All_ of them?" She risked looking up, saw the indignation on his face.

"Good news travels fast," she lilted, trying not to laugh.

He merely raised in eyebrow in response and she realized the table had gone nearly quiet again. Daisy was just coming through from the kitchen with another platter.

"Alright," she shook her head, put her napkin aside. She stood, saw a terrified look cross Charles' face. She lightly placed her hand on his, briefly, then turned to the rest of the table. "Alright, you might as well get it out of your systems now before you all collectively keel over." She sat back down, put her napkin on her lap, and began tucking into her dinner as the whoops and cheers and congratulations began ringing out around her.

She risked a glance at her betrothed and he looked mortified and gratified in equal measure. And though she mourned the loss of their secret, and with it, some of her privacy, she couldn't help but smile at him. These folks, they were their family. And they were delighted for them.

How did she get so lucky?


	22. January Embers

**A/N: Thanks to YOU ALL who made your wishes know about the "M" stuff. Clearly, there was a rousing (see what I did there?) response in one particular direction, and I aim to please. Anyway, with respects to some of the more eye-rolling and/or OOC plot devices used in Season 6, I've decided to begin addressing Elsie's paralyzing embarrassment over the sexual aspects of her impending marriage in the next few chapters. I don't know if I feel that her embarrassment is OOC, per se; I DO feel that the HUGE time jump (3 months or so, I think?) between the proposal and the start of Season 6 is VERY unrealistic, in that they WOULD HAVE AND SHOULD HAVE had the "sex talk" much sooner, even if was through Patmore at first.**

 **And, in exploring these in-canon actions and feelings, I've made a definitive choice in this chapter, and the next: the first time with see C &H kiss on-screen is NOT their first kiss. It's their second (and what that "second" kiss means will be delved into as well a few chapters from now). ~ CeeCee **

January Embers

Charles stood just outside the grand front door of Downton with Andrew and Mr. Molesley as two cars pulled away down the drive: one, carrying Lady Edith, on her way to London and Lady Rosamund for several weeks, and her sister and parents gone only for the day to visit with Mrs. Crawley and the Dowager.

"That's them settled for the day through dinnertime, and Lady Edith until mid-February, Mr. Carson?"

"Correct, Mr. Molesley," he responded as they went back inside. It was one of those biting, winding grey days that settled on one's bones and stayed there. "It should be rather quiet here today, certainly, at the very least, especially given that Mr. Branson and Miss Sybbie are gone." He wouldn't mourn Tom Branson, _per se_ , though he grudgingly respected and liked the man, but he _would_ miss his daughter, who reminded him so much of her mother's bright, kind soul.

"She's a sweet tyke, isn't she, Miss Sybbie?" Andrew piped in, smiling. "I'd like to have a handful of my own, someday, give 'em the best, things I never had," he continued.

"Speaking of which, Mr. Carson, is it still alright for me to take Daisy for a few hours to study?" Mr. Molesley asked as they went down the stairs. "Andrew has kindly offered to take care of everything that needs attention this afternoon."

"Not at all, Mr. Molesley," he responded, "Mrs. Patmore has the day off, so Daisy will have to prepare the servants' tea, but you two can use the servants' hall until then."

"Thank you, Mr. Carson, that's very good of you," Mr. Molesley replied, but, while he didn't object, Charles' acquiescence wasn't purely altruistic. His generosity stemmed from a growing certainty that this afternoon very well might allow him to spend more than five interrupted minutes with Downton's housekeeper. Through a combination of good timing, a fair amount of luck, and, of course, what he was best at – finessed planning – the family of the house, save for Master George and Miss Marigold, were gone until at least after dinner time, and most of the staff were off or busy with time-consuming tasks that didn't require his or Mrs. Hughes' assistance.

He bid farewell to the footmen and went into the kitchen, where Daisy was hovering over a small tray laden with edibles and potables.

"Ah, Daisy, thank you very much, especially given that Mrs. Patmore's not here today," he looked down at the platter and noticed the sandwiches had been cut into hearts. He glanced back up at her, wavering between being annoyed and touched. He settled for raising an eyebrow at her and saying, "It looks quite nice, thank you."

"'Twasn't a problem a'tall, Mr. Carson. Was a nice idea to make a tray up for Mrs. Hughes, special-like," she smiled down at her handiwork. "It's all rather romantic, isn't it?" She turned her smile on him.

"Well, I am sure," he replied, noncommittally. "Off you go now, Mr. Molesley is waiting for you in the servants' hall to go over your studies together."

The cooking assistant left with another grin and nod, and he looked back down at the tray. _Heart sandwiches,_ he thought, and, because no one was around to see him, he grinned broadly at them.

oooOOOooo

He rapped on her door and went in, proceeded by the laden-down tray. Her head was bent over her ledgers, and the swirls of her pinned-up hair sent swirls through him, in all different directions. That…part of things…well, if he started thinking on it, he'd never get a day's work done until his wedding night; his brain and body would be in utter tumult.

"Good morning," he said as he shut the door.

"Aye, to you too. I'll not be long, just finishing up some numbers," Elsie didn't look up, and continued writing, and he just enjoyed watching her, at an everyday task, unobserved.

When he had loved Alice, it had been a love borne out of physical attraction and infatuation, at first. There was certainly nothing wrong with that, it was the way of the young. But Charles Carson wasn't a young man anymore. And the desire he felt for the woman sitting unassumingly before him, calculating sums, was something more complicated. He wanted her, oh yes. But it wasn't that simple rush of desire anymore, was it? Or rather, it wasn't _only_ that rush of desire. After so many years, decades, building step by step, layer by layer, professional respect, then personal admiration, then friendly camaraderie, then lasting friendship, then deep love, always with an undercurrent of wanting, of yearning for physical closeness.

He, a man who lived by rules, by propriety, wanted so desperately to sweep her into his arms and lavish her face and neck with kisses. There was just… _so much_ ground to cover. Both of them, living their tidily, asexual, proper existence for so long.

It would take time. It would take patience. Oh, yes, he wanted her; but the feeling must be requited.

However…a man could hope for a kiss from his betrothed, could he not? He fervently hoped so. Chances like this, a day like this, didn't reveal themselves too often, not without a lot of luck and perseverance.

She finally put her pen down, closed her ledger. Looked up at him, her eyes widening. "My, my, how lovely. Is that all for us?"

"Indeed it is, thought I am afraid Daisy went a bit beyond my specifications without Mrs. Patmore's guiding hand," he set the tray on her desk and began laying things out at her side table. "She and Mr. Molesley have taken over most of the table in the servants' hall for her scholastic endeavors until the servants' tea later this afternoon."

"Well, that was kind of you, and of her," she rose from her chair and stood next to him, waiting for her tea. She was very close, or at least it felt that way to him. He felt every movement each of them made in excruciating, wonderful detail.

He breathed a little easier once they were seated across from each other. This was a distance he could handle; he'd sat across from her dozens and dozens of time over the years, probably hundreds.

She took a sip of her tea; then her eye caught on the sandwiches Daisy had prepared and he saw her choke back laughter. "I suppose _this_ is what you meant by her 'going beyond your specifications'"?" She held the small heart up, then bit into it.

"She claimed it was 'romantic,'" he replied, raising his eyebrow at her. He only wished he could settle himself better. His heart was racing, every smile, every glance, sent zipping lines of heat and light through his entire body. It was wonderful; it was terribly distracting, however.

"Aye, I suppose it is, at that," she finished her heart, wiped her mouth with a napkin. "As was orchestrating a nearly work-free day for the two of us, without ever having to leave Downton." At this she flushed, her cheeks going pink. This wasn't helping his cause; he could hardly sit still for what she was doing to him unknowingly.

"I suppose the pair of us are entitled to a few hours without constant running around or rapping on one of our doors," he replied, and he stood, completely full of pent-up energy, walked over to where she had a few family pictures displayed. He thought she would speak, but she didn't. And though his back was to her, he felt that string, up under his chest, the string Charlotte Bronte had written about, connecting two people in love, as he always did these days. Going about the day's business, he would often wonder where she was, and his heart's string would pull tight, trying to locate her.

His eyes caught one photo, that of a woman of about fifty. Though she was well into middle age, she wore her hair pulled up at the sides, with the rest flowing down her back, like a young girl. Her face was all innocence, her slightly crossed eyes free of guile. Freckles dotted her broad nose.

"That's Becky," Elsie said softly, and he started a little. She had quietly come to his side, took the picture down from its place. She smiled at it in a way that broke his heart, and made him ashamed of himself all over again. She placed the picture down and went back to the table. He sat across from her, considering, then said,

"Tell me about her," he said, nearly in a whisper.

She gasped, and he saw tears in her eyes. She swiped them away and reached her hand across the table towards him. He grabbed it in both of his, and he could feel her pulse racing. He wasn't the only unsure, nervous person in this room.

And she began speaking slowly, as her pulse quieted, slowly, telling him about the girl she had been and the baby that had come so late in her parents' lives, and had shown up wrong. She spoke of how much she loved her sister, but with the love also came the burden of her. And then she smiled and laughed, remembering the joys of being around someone so eternally innocent and child-like. Her words finally tapered off and she reached her other hand out, placed in on the pile they had created.

"Now it's _your_ turn. Tell me about Alice." He jumped a little at the request, unsure of how to proceed.

"Don't worry, Mr. Carson, I'm not jealous of Alice," her eyes twinkled. "I like to think of we two as the only members of an exclusive club."

He paused, then began. "I first saw Alice in profile, her face lit by a stage lamp, her lace collar glittering at her neck. I was done for," he thought she would dislike him speaking of another woman, but her face was warm and interested. And so he kept talking, even telling her a little of the friendship he shared with Charlie Grigg, something he almost always felt should be left in the past.

They both kept speaking and listening, and a true miracle occurred: no one interrupted them. He wasn't sure he'd ever had a private conversation with her that was remotely as long as this one. He was almost dizzy on the abundance of it.

But time ran out, as it always does. He had come here in the hopes of physical confirmation of his fiancé's affection for him, and they had whiled away the time talking. Where had the time gone? She stood, clearing their dishes and cups, tidying the tray that Daisy had made for them.

"I suppose that's it then, our day off," once again, she wasn't looking at him, but focused on her task, and he was, once again, flooded with desire. "I must thank you, Mr. Carson, for such a lovely –"

"Elsie," he breathed. It felt good to call her by her name again, after all of these years.

He heard her breath catch, and she slowly turned to him. She looked up at him. "Charlie."

Oh, to hear his name on her lips. "I would like to kiss you, if I may?"

She was still looking up at him, and her face was absolutely still. He wasn't sure she was ever going to answer him, and worried that he'd offended her, ruined the lovely time they had spent today. But then, she stepped towards him, just a little.

"Yes, you may," her voice was barely audible. He stepped closer to her, realizing their bodies were nearly touching. He placed his hand on her cheek, and it was soft, so soft. She leaned her head a little into his palm, and he could feel her racing pulse in her neck. His own heart raced in time with hers.

He leaned forward and oh, so gently, placed his lips on hers. At first it was nearly like kissing a statue: she was so tense and taut, made of stone. He nearly backed away, but then: she completely softened under his hand, his mouth. Her hand found his lapel, clutched at it. He sighed, and so did she.

When they broke apart, he folded her into his arms, stroked the swirls of her hairdo, placed his cheek on her head, and enjoyed a few more interrupted moments, just they two.


	23. Untangling the String

**A/N: Hey all – so. Yes. Okay, I am going to admit it: I forgot about the "Maybe you should start callin' me 'Elsie'" moment in E1S6. I address it here – I hope it makes sense/you give me a free pass. ;-) I am sort of approaching their "day off" as a momentary oasis; a little island of a day where they could just** ** _be_** **without the worries of their changing status and of the changing status quo, of what intimacy of ALL sorts is going to do their relationship, how they perceive themselves, each other and how others perceive them. They just sort of existed in that short time. And then – reality crashes down around both of them. How do they sort it out? ~CeeCee**

As Winter Becomes Spring, 1925

Untangling the String

Things just weren't _right_ , and he wasn't entirely sure why. Between he and Elsie. There was nothing _wrong_ , really; things were as they always had been: they each worked from the time the sun rose until when it set, sometimes separately, sometimes in concert, passing each other along the way. Pausing momentarily, sometimes a bit longer, to share a story, a smile, a bit of gossip about the house or the village; to hash out a solution to a problem; to settle a row among the staff.

They even took a glass of wine together most evenings now, nothing as languorous or uninterrupted that lovely afternoon in January, but still, near-daily respites from the hustle and bustle of the world beyond his pantry or her office. Everything was as just as it had been, for decades.

The March winds were blowing around the corners of the grand house before it hit him: _that_ was it. They were acting _just as they always had._ But things _weren't_ the same. He had proposed. She had accepted. They were engaged. There were going to be married. Things _must_ be different now, and were going to be _very_ different in the imminent future.

His mind, and his body, kept going back to that kiss: the softness of her cheek, the momentary tenseness then softening of her body towards his, and the desperate, underlying constant desire since those few moments had occurred to repeat them, expand upon them. To explore whatever else there was they could give to each other. But all of that _had_ to wait. He realized that now. As much as he wanted to orchestrate another afternoon like that, he realized how reckless, how foolish it had been, in many ways to even attempt it. He didn't regret it; no, not at all. He cherished those hours they had, not just for the momentary physical closeness, but for the time they had spent together. However, their lives didn't really allow them to repeat it.

Until they were married, until there were in a space they called their own. They were too conspicuous of a pair in both house and the village to have any anonymity or privacy, other than behind closed doors. And their current doors simply didn't stay closed very often.

He had retreated back to his old ways, to _their_ old ways, without realizing it for weeks, nearly months. He even chastised her just this week for suggesting that he call her by her given name. His heart had nearly stopped at the thought of him uttering it in front of the staff, or the Crawley family, though nothing felt more right than saying her name. It wasn't _proper._ And it was _private._ He saw the puzzled look on her face but didn't know how to express what he felt. It was all wrapped up in his _wanting_ her, and he was worried about offending her, about scaring her. About being disrespectful, or _inappropriate_.

And now, he sat at his desk, puzzling at the retreating figure of Beryl Patmore. There was something there. Something she wanted to talk to him about, something he suspected had to do with Elsie. And why a wedding date hadn't been set. He put it on the top of his list to get to the bottom of it, no matter what.

He wanted to be a married man as soon as possible.

oooOOOooo

She was a complete jumble inside. A snarl of nerves, insecurity, fear and raging independence. She unpinned her hair by the solitary light of her bedside lamp, unraveled it without thinking, going through the mundane motions as she did each night. Began brushing through it, grateful that it was still plentiful and mostly brown, though a paler shade than it had been when she was young, like water added to paint.

She sighed and took stock of herself in her vanity mirror. The contours of her face, both familiar and alien: when did she get so old? Her cheekbones were still there, her eyes still bright and alive and intelligent. But everything else had softened, even as she grew more strong-willed and stubborn. Am _I stubborn? Or am I just afraid?_

She pulled the brush through her hair again, then slammed it restlessly down on the nightstand. She began plaiting her hair for bedtime, then examined her neck, her chest, dotted with age spots here and there. She ran a hand across her breastbone. It was still relatively smooth. And then she thought about Charlie touching her in exactly the same way, in the same place, and her entire body clenched. It was delicious and terrifying and intoxicating and made her feel like someone was about to push her down a steep, icy hill on a sledge.

She thought about what Beryl Patmore had told her about her conversation with Charlie (though, apparently, there weren't _allowed_ to use each other's Christian names in the hallowed halls of Downton Abbey). Her heart soared at his talk of love and pride of her. And the rest of her had ended up here, staring at herself in the mirror, her body and mind a woozy cocktail of lust and fear and trepidation.

She thought of her Mam, her much-loved voice still fresh in her mind. A brief, blunt conversation they had, a few years before she died, when they had started talking about Becky, and what her future looked like. Elsie had found the place at Lytham St. Annes. Her mother thought it was too dear.

 _"Elsie, lass, how'd you ever afford it?"_

 _"Don't worry, Mam. I've done the numbers. I can, just. It will all be fine."_

 _The two women were sitting at the familiar family table. Becky was outside, feeding the chickens. Well, mostly just chasing them._

 _"Yer so sharp, me girl. It's like God gave all the brains to you so…" Mam sighed, looking tired. Elsie didn't know what to say. She knew she'd acquired knowledge and wisdom far beyond anything that anyone she grew up with had, or could. She felt the guilt of it, the burden of it – and the privilege of it._

 _"Not at all, Mam. I'm no smarter than anyone else, I've simply applied meself to the tasks at hand," she shook her head, sipped her tea._

 _"Nay, yer sharp as the tip of a knife, my love, no doubt. And ruled by yer brains, and yer sense, which is why ye have the independence ye do. Though I know ye thought strongly about going t'other way with your Joe Burns those years ago."_

 _"Aye, I did. Joe Burns was,_ is, _a good man," she sighed. She didn't regret Joe, not really; it was remembering a different version of herself._

 _"I know, El, but then ye'd lose that freedom ye have now, of mind, of heart – and, my dear, of body. I know we ne'er speak on these things, and there's not much point in it now, given the life you've chosen. But lass, know this: when you give yourself to a man, even a man you love, you give up a part of yourself. You submit to the weight of him, who he is. They are bigger than us in all ways, all that matter, at least. Yer life is free o' that weight."_

She finished the braid and contemplated her choices. Charles Carson _was_ a big man. In every way. Did she want the weight of him? This wasn't just about…well…the natural physical things that happened between man and wife, though she let Beryl Patmore think that was it. Or, most of it. This wasn't just about the deep embarrassment and insecurity she felt about her aging body. This was about taking on the weight of him, the _intimacy_ of him. Trusting him. Relinquishing some of her independence to him.

She closed her eyes. Let her hand drift off the end of her braid again, across her breast bone, felt her beating heart beneath the skin spots and the softness. Her strong heart. That loved Charles Carson, very much. That was afraid but pliable and independent but willing.

She wanted to be a married woman. And to be Charles Carson's wife.

oooOOOooo

Here they were, again.

Behind one of their closed doors, with at least more than a moment together, while the celebration for the Bateses' carried on in the servants' hall. She had stopped him from leaving, because he seemed ready to. And she saw, underneath the reserve and the practicality, when he thought she was rejecting him, rejecting submitting to him, to _this_ , to true intimacy, his own fear and worry and insecurity.

But they got there, in the end.

"I've never been so sure of anything," he said, and he face softened into something she'd not seen in a while.

"Well then, Mr. Carson, ye want me, ye can have me, to quote Oliver Cromwell, warts and all," her heart was pounding, but this was her promise to him, and to herself: she would trust this man with all that she was. She stepped towards him, and he leaned down, hand on her cheek. He kissed her, more briefly than that lovely afternoon in the winter, then kissed her forehead. She rested her head against his chest, listening to his heart, relishing all of the places their bodies met.

She wasn't sure how long they stood there, holding each other, listening to the tinny Victrola music wafting down the hallway, mixed with laughter and singing. She suddenly realized she wanted another kiss, though.

He spoke before she could. "Elsie."

She leaned back from him, but didn't let go. For once, it was her eyebrow shooting upwards.

"Yes, I know. I am _not_ changing my mind about how we should address each other when we are working, _however,_ this is something I want to say to you, as the woman I love: I am sorry. Sorry we didn't speak about this sooner," he looked down at her and she was startled to see tears in his eyes. "And….and I was worried, after speaking with Mrs. Patmore, that you…that you had changed your mind. Or that…that you had never loved me in the way I had hoped, or the way that I love you. So…I put this conversation off. Because I was afraid. Of losing this."

"No fools like old fools, both of us," and _she_ felt the tears welling up in her eyes, but also a bit of laughter, loose and a bit mad-feeling, bubbling up as well. "We'll both do better, I hope, going forward."

"We should be getting back," he said, with a sigh, letting go of her.

"Aye, we should, as we always must," she replied. She missed his arms around her already, the fear and love and lust his touch brought a giddy combination no potable could match.

They both turned towards the door with some reluctance. She desperately wanted another kiss first, though. His hand was on the doorknob, and he chance would be gone once he swung the door open.

She opened her mouth, having no idea what would come out, when he glanced back at her.

"I assume this means we can move forward with wedding plans?" Now his eyebrow was arching into its accustomed spot.

"Yes. Yes, we can," she nearly lost her courage, but then put her hand over his on the door knob. "Wait." She wasn't sure if he heard her, despite how close they were. The word fell like a puff of air from her lips. Her whole body was tingling.

He looked at their hands together then at her, and his face changed again. She felt her breath shorten. The look was dangerous and lovely and way too many more things to handle in this office in the bowels of Downton Abbey, with the entire staff yards away.

He didn't speak. He waited. For her.

She took a deep breath. Stepped very close to him. Put her hand on his arm. _Charlie..._ she thought. Then said, quite deliberately, "Mr. Carson, _I_ would like to kiss _you,_ if I may?" She pressed the important words ever-so-slightly, hoping he would understand what she was asking for, what she was telling him.

"Yes, of course," his voice sounded so different than it usually did, he may well have been a different man. She knew _she_ was becoming a different woman, with each moment. This is what Mam had meant. The weight of it.

He remained very still, while she moved; her hand slid up from where it was on his forearm and landed on the nape of his neck, where those bristly short hairs she'd thought about were, feeling so like she'd imagined. She pulled his face towards her and stood taller to reach him, and when their mouths met this third time, she suddenly realized what all of the fuss was about: there was no politeness in this, just breath, and lips, and a soft, delightful wetness, and a rising in her lower belly that seemed to be reaching somewhere, somewhere, somewhere…

And she pulled back because part of her wanted to find out where that somewhere was, even if it was a touch frightening, because it was _also_ exciting, but not _here,_ not _now_ , and she was looking at him, with her hand over her lips, which felt wonderfully sore, almost chapped.

He was regarding her with a dazed but happy grin. A lock of hair was drifting down his forehead. She stepped forward and pushed it quickly back, meaning to move away quickly, but he grabbed her around the waist with the arm that wasn't busy with the door knob.

"You're looking less than entirely tidy yourself, Mrs. Hughes," he kissed her again, quickly, and let her go.

She smoothed her own hair back into place by touch, let out a shaky breath. "I do believe, Mr. Carson, there's another thing to add to your list of 'not to do at Downton.'"

The both smiled at each other as their breaths slowed. The listened to the revelry down the hall, and she heard a romantic number start up on the Victrola. Gershwin, maybe, or Berlin. She wasn't sure.

"A Gershwin tune," he said, opening the door, reading her thoughts. "A fine song writer, even if he _is_ American. Care for a dance, Mrs. Hughes?"

"I'd love to, Mr. Carson. I really would," she walked down the hall beside him, so they could rejoin the party.


	24. Tying the Knot

Tying the Knot

 **A/N: We made it! Wedding day. Oh, I just LOOOOOVED writing this chapter. I've actually thought about it a lot already; the thoughts I wanted to convey from each of them, the conversations they have that day (and not with each other!) I also sort of see how this story is going to play out. I have several chapters planned for the wedding, honeymoon and events that happen in Series 6, plus several after the timeline of the show.**

 **I am also going to take another informal survey: I have an ending planned. This ending occurs AFTER the death of one of our lovers. I'd love to write it, and share it with you all, but I KNOW I said in the beginning of this story I wasn't going to do that, and maybe it's too melancholy, after all! The penultimate chapter I have in mind will serve nearly as well as an ending to this story, and both of them are still alive at that point. Mind you, I think this story has somewhere between 8-10 chapters to go, so the end is still a bit of a ways off.**

 **What say you all? ~CeeCee**

The Night Before the Wedding, May 1925

The sadness surprised him, took him off guard. What he'd been feeling the past few weeks was mostly severe nervousness and excitement, almost to the point of giddiness. But as he closed the latches of his battered suitcase, he gazed around his simple bachelor's room, sat, and stroked the duvet at the end of his bachelor's bed.

He'd kept and slept in this room since he'd been promoted to butler, for almost forty years, before he'd ever heard the name "Elsie Hughes". And…this was the last night he would sleep here. Tomorrow he would awaken (he wanted to believe he could get a _little_ sleep this evening, though, at the moment, it seemed impossible) and it would be his wedding day.

 _His wedding day._

By this time tomorrow night, he'd be honeymooning in Scarborough, with his new wife.

 _His new wife._

It was all so much to take in. His work, this house, his life: those phrases had all been synonymous for decades and decades. That was all about to change. It was terrifying, in the face of it. He knew he was someone who did not handle change with particular ease, and yet, he was changing his entire life less than a day from now. No wonder he felt tired, and more than a little melancholic.

He began taking off his livery, getting ready for bed. He climbed under the blankets, lowered his lamp, still sitting against the headboard. Realizing that tomorrow night, he'd be at a seaside hotel, in a strange bed, with Elsie beside him. That thought was thrilling and terrifying and wonderful and sobering all at once.

And then he thought of her, as she'd been a few weeks ago, standing in drawing room that evening. Summoned by Lady Grantham, to explain herself. She'd stood there, so trim and small and yes, as she liked to say, tidy, the glamour of the room and the Crawleys in sharp contrast to her staid figure.

She'd been so tense and tightly drawn, but had spoken honestly, and fairly about what _she_ wanted. At first, he'd felt highly upset that it had come to this: why couldn't she go along with the family's generous offer, with Lady Mary's good wishes? With their desire to mark this special day by acknowledging his life's service?

And then she had softened, slightly, catching his eye: said the day was about _them_ , Charles Carson and Elsie Hughes. And he'd suddenly realized how wrong he'd been.

This day, this night, was the last night that his life revolved primarily around this glorious house, and the glorious people that lived and had lived here.

Going forward, his life was about _them. Charles Carson and Elsie Hughes._ About her. About him.

No wonder he felt…well…like he was burying something away. He _was._ His bachelor's life, with this magnificent house at the center of it all. Downton had been his mistress forever and a day; but he was taking a bride tomorrow, and it was time to say goodbye to the Charles Carson who'd put the house and the Crawley family before everything else. And goodbyes were difficult.

And so were beginnings. But he was ready.

oooOOOooo

She stood off in one corner to catch her breath. Tom Branson's crashing her wedding reception was a welcome relief, on top of her genuine pleasure in seeing him again. She'd never felt so overly inspected in her life as she had the past few hours. Right now, she just wanted to stand and take it all in. The school house looked really lovely, exactly as she'd hoped.

The tables were heavy with roasts and potatoes and cold salads, none of those fussy, posh bits they all nibbled on at their own 'dos. Everyone was mingling together: Isobel Crawley was deep in conversation with Miss Baxter and Mr. Moseley; Master George and Miss Marigold were running around with some of the tenant farmers' children, crawling in and out from under the tablecloths; Lord Grantham was telling a story with grand gestures to Andrew, Daisy, Thomas and Lady Edith, who looked flushed and happily distracted. The Bateses were chatting with the Dowager. There were dozens of cheerful and unusual tableaux around the room, and it did her democratic heart good to see it.

"You can't hide forever over here, you know, you're the bride, after all," Mrs. Patmore was suddenly at her elbow, handing her a glass of punch.

"I'm not _hiding,_ not really," she insisted, smiling at her friend. "Here's to _you_ , Mrs. Patmore, and everything you've done to get us to this day." They toasted each other, and Elsie felt grateful to have such a good friend in her life every day.

"Some things require more thanks than others, and I'm not talking about the menu, Mrs. Hughes, _Carson_ , that is," Mrs. Patmore shook her head. "Not sure I've ever been asked to attend to a more awkward errand than the one you set me up with awhile back." She rolled her eyes, grinned.

"Aye, well it all worked out in the end, I suppose," Elsie mused, touching her wedding ring thoughtfully, searching for her new husband in the crowd. She smiled when she saw him. He was holding Miss Sybbie, deep in conversation with the young girl.

"Well, I suppose you won't really know until tonight, eh?" Mrs. Patmore retorted, breaking her sentimental reverie.

Elsie gasped, turned towards Beryl Patmore, and then, couldn't help herself: she started giggling. Then so did the cook, her face turning pink. Elsie could feel her cheeks getting red as well. They held on to each other with the hands that were free of punch glasses. Oh she was nervous, worried, excited, terrified, but right now, it all seemed very funny. She probably ought to eat something before she had anymore punch.

"Why am I not surprised to find the two of you in the corner, laughing like a pair of schoolgirls?" Tom Branson's Irish lilt interrupted them.

"Ah, Mr. Branson, yeh know only the half of it, maybe even less," Mrs. Patmore responded, drying her eyes. "Well, I'd best go see to the carving now."

"Keep in mind you're a guest, Mrs. Patmore, and a valued one at that. Don't work too hard, now." Elsie waved at her as she hurried away.

"And be too tired for the hooley later on? Never!"

"Yer havin' a hooley, Mrs. Hughes?" Tom Branson asked joyfully.

"Yes, indeed, Mr. Branson, later on, when the posher people have gone," her eyes twinkled a little at his delight. He was a fine lad, and a better brother than either of the Crawley ladies deserved, in her opinion. Though she noticed they both sought his approval in ways that they didn't their parents, so perhaps, on second thought, they _did_ endeavor to deserve him. "You'll have to decide which side ye fall on."

"That's always been the biggest question, hasn't it, Mrs. Hughes?" He leaned in, kissed her cheek. "Mrs. Carson, I should say. Sybbie and I came back on the perfect day, I think."

"Well, I know everyone is glad to have you home, and we're honored that you and Miss Sybbie could be here," she replied, and they both looked over at Carson, still deep in conversation with the wee lass.

"Who'd have thought Mr. Carson would marry a progressive such as yourself?"

"Well, Mr. Branson, be sure you don't call me a 'liberal' in front of him, or he's liable to change his mind about the whole thing."

"In all seriousness, Mrs. Hughes – Carson – I'm very happy for you both. Mr. Carson is a good man, a kind man – "

"Aye, he is," she interrupted him gently, hoping he would carry on with consideration.

"But I think he and I have more in common than he'd warrant. You temper him, in the best way possible, when he's headed for an extreme world view on one thing or another. Just as Sybil did for me," his eyes were glossy with tears.

"We all still miss her, Mr. Branson," she put her hand on his arm, squeezed. "Aye, not as you do, but she was a light in the world like very few others are."

"And you helped me, so much, Mrs. Carson, in those dark, confusing days afterwards, when Sybbie was a baby, and I could barely think for grief," he gave her a long look, and she knew they were both remembering the trouble with Edna those years ago.

"Tom, Mrs. Hu-Carson!" Mary was moving towards them, smiling brightly, breaking the moment. "Tom, Sybbie is in a desperate search for her father and Mr. Carson, for his new bride. We're all sitting for lunch now, though I must speak with Mrs. Hughes – Carson –for a moment, if I may?"

She turned towards Elsie as Tom moved towards Charlie to lift Miss Sybbie into his arms. Her new husband caught her eye, raised an eyebrow at the perplexing pair of she and Lady Mary, then smiled broadly at her, nodded. She smiled back. She could feel the younger woman taking in the moment but didn't worry herself about it.

"What can I do for you, m'lady?" She kept her voice professionally neutral.

"It's more what _I_ can do for _you¸_ Mrs. Carson," she paused, and Elsie really looked at her beautiful, composed face. She was struggling, underneath her poise. _Lady Mary was struggling to speak._ "I wanted to apologize to _you_ about before, about insisting that you and Carson get married at Downton. It…it was well-intentioned on my part, borne out of my dedication to Carson, but short-sighted. I can see that now."

"You know he'd forgive you anything, m'lady," Elsie replied, her heart softening a little towards the younger woman.

"Yes, I know," she smiled over at the man in question, who was heading their way. "But…but it's _your_ forgiveness I am asking. I was wrong, and I overstepped my place." Mary looked mildly flustered.

"Of course it's alright," she replied quietly, which was all she could manage in her shock. Charlie was nearly upon them, so she spoke very softly, so only Mary could hear. "And I would like to thank _you_ , m'lady, for procuring a beautiful wedding jacket for me, despite the confusion with Lady Grantham."

Mary arched her eyebrow, and suddenly smiled. "We're not so different from one another, are we, Mrs. Carson?"

"Less than I previously thought, m'lady," Elsie replied.

"Congratulations," Mary leaned over, her eyes now twinkling, and kissed Elsie's cheek. "I mean that. I can see now that Carson was right – _he_ is the lucky one." And she drifted gracefully away with another kiss, this one for Carson's cheek, and not another word.

He looked after her for a moment, then down at Elsie. She smiled up at him, took his arm.

"What was that about, dare I ask?" His eyebrow went up, in that way she loved.

"A wedding day miracle, is what it was," she laughed, stood on tiptoe, kissed him by his ear. "Let's go eat. I'm starving."

oooOOOooo

The hooley had begun.

They'd eaten, they'd supped, they'd talked, they'd laughed and smiled, all the while his hand had been twined with hers on the bench. Then everyone had stood, Lord Grantham had spoken, and the lords and ladies had left, though Tom Branson had stayed behind. Most people shed their jackets; ties were loosened, hats removed, sleeves rolled up. The younger men pushed the benches and tables to the edge of the room for those who wanted to sit and watch, rather than participate.

Instruments appeared: violins, hand boxes, accordions, tambourines. Someone rolled the school's battered upright piano into the center of things.

And with a collective nod from the musicians, the music started. Hands clapped, feet stomped, spoons were smacked on open palms, and then the young people took to the floor, whirling around in twos, then the not-so-young people, like Miss Baxter and Mr. Molesley, two people that seemed as unlikely to dance a reel as any pair, were spinning around the dance floor.

Charles looked over at Elsie. She'd removed her hat and the lovely jacket Lady Grantham had gifted her. A few tendrils of hair had escaped their pins and hung about her face. She was clapping along to the music, leaning into him casually, and he was suddenly, forcefully grateful he'd not carried on with the momentary insanity of getting married at Downton. He was sitting in his shirt sleeves, with his bride leaning against him. That could not have happened in the great hall of the great house where they had worked for so long.

She caught him looking and grinned up at him. He placed his arm around her – that was allowed, he felt, in public, by a newly married couple. And it was a hooley, after all, not a cocktail reception. Miss Baxter and Mr. Molesley were heading towards them, red-faced and sweaty from dancing. Miss Baxter had a pair of white roses in her hand.

"Congratulations again, Mr. and Mrs. Carson," she said in that unflappable, serene voice she had. Mr. Molesley nodded in agreement, catching his breath. "Mrs. Carson, may I?" She held up the flowers in her hand and gestured to her hair. Elsie smiled in acquiescence as the lady's maid pinned the blossoms expertly behind her ear.

"I want to thank you, Miss Baxter, for the extra hours you put in last night to kit out her ladyship's coat for me. It was very kind of you to go out of your way for me, though I notice it's your way often enough, to help others," Elsie took the younger woman's hand and squeezed. Charles saw Mr. Molesley watch the exchange carefully, particularly noticing the adoring gaze he cast on Miss Baxter.

"It was my absolute pleasure," Miss Baxter smiled gently, her cheeks going pink.

"Shall we get some punch, then, Miss Baxter?" Mr. Molesley said, and the two moved away, his hand resting lightly on her back. Charles looked after them for a moment, thinking. He'd never really paid mind to their interactions in the past, but now it seemed…

"Do you think there's something going there?" He leaned conspiratorially over at Elsie, who was also grinning after them.

She turned her head back towards him. The flowers Miss Baxter had placed in her hair made her look particularly fetching. "You mean, inappropriate? Or not befitting employees of the grand house of Downton?" She was smiling mischievously up at him.

"No, I meant more, well, they seem particularly _fond_ of each other, in a way…" He wasn't sure how to explain it to her; looking at the pair of them reminded him vaguely of him and Elsie twenty or so years ago, though each of them was as different from the younger couple as possible. But still: there was something reminiscent, about it, a dancing on the edge of something, something more, beyond their roles at Downton.

"Ye mean, are they in love with each other? Of course they are, ye daft man," she was laughing, but not teasing him. "They've been so nearly since she arrived a few years ago, to the best of my estimations. Lucky for them, the world is changing, and fast. They'll get around to it sooner than we did, I think." She paused, took a deep breath, and looked out on the dancers spinning around. "Now, Mr. Carson, are ye goin' to take yer bride for a reel on the dance floor, especially seeing as I'm looking like Robin Goodfellow about to dance away with the fairies, at the moment?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of Queen Titania," he smiled, touched the flowers in her hair. "And I don't mind a dance, but there's something else first…" he stood, nodded towards the musicians. The head fiddler nodded, made a gesture, and the music abruptly cut off. There were cries of protest, until the man shouted out:

"If you may, everyone, the groom!" Every head in the place swung towards him, including the one that mattered the most, as he stood. She rose after him.

"Yer not going to _speak_ now, are ye?" She looked perplexed.

"No, indeed I am not. You said you wanted a hooley, and you got it, and I planned accordingly. Lest you forget my background on the stage," he raised his eyebrow at her, and she laughed, still looking confused but happy.

"I'll not bore you with a speech, we've had enough of those today," he said as he stepped into the middle of the crowd. There were intermittent cheers at this proclamation, and he raised his eyebrows momentarily. There was a bit of nervous tittering in response, mostly from Downton's younger staff members. "I'll say only that this is dedicated to my own Scottish lass," he nodded towards Elsie, who was standing in the crowd, grinning at him.

He cleared his throat, and began singing:

 _"O the summer time has come  
And the trees are sweetly blooming  
And wild mountain thyme  
Grows around the purple heather.  
Will you go, lassie, go?"_

His voice was still strong, and clear, and true, even after all of these years, but none of that really mattered. He saw the look on her face when he began singing the familiar lyrics, the surprise, the joy, the love, and _that_ was what mattered. She moved towards him, and he put his arm around her waist. She looked up at him, and joined in, as most of the crowd did, on the chorus:

 _"And we'll all go together,  
To pull wild mountain thyme,  
All around the purple heather.  
Will you go, lassie, go?"_

And as their voices carried through the late Yorkshire afternoon, Charles thought of the suitcase he'd packed last night, for his honeymoon, which began in a few short hours. The sadness, the melancholy he felt that an enormous part of his life was ending was all mixed up with this new joy, this excitement, fear, wonder, and most of all, love. He looked down at Elsie and sang the final chorus again:

" _Will you go, lass, go?"_


	25. Uncharted Seas

Chapter 25

Uncharted Seas

 **A/N: Thank you, dear readers, for your lovely comments and PMs on the last chapter. This chapter was written in fits and starts; I really wanted to try and get it "right". Loving, lovely, awkward, a dance forwards and back for both of them, especially her, I think. Also, laughter. Sex is funny, let's be honest; if there's no humor in it, we're doomed. I hope you enjoy it. ~CeeCee**

He watched the grass and farmland rolling by slowly change into sea cliffs and dunes with tall reeds in the late golden afternoon light. The first class car his lordship had arranged for them was tranquil, empty but for the two of them since the last stop, when the only other passenger on the car got off, a sharp contrast to the noise and the revelry of the wedding reception.

He and Elsie had been hustled out of the schoolhouse with great fanfare, to a waiting car bedecked with ribbons and tin cans. _A bit ridiculous_ , he thought, with a wry smile, _but I suppose being a first-time groom past your seventieth birthday is_ also _a bit ridiculous._

But…it was also a bit wonderful. And exciting. And terrifying. He glanced down at his dozing wife.

Elsie's head rested heavily on his arm, and he could smell the roses Miss Baxter has placed in her hair, slightly wilted but still fragrant, now pinned to the brim of her hat; he could smell those things that to him were ultimately feminine, the fragrance of things women rubbed or sprayed or splashed on themselves: lavender, talc, vanilla. And mingled with these scents he could smell Elsie herself, the sweat from dancing, her skin, her hair, smells that were hers alone.

He bent his head closer to hers, and sighed. He didn't know what tonight, or this trip, would bring, but the scent of her was driving him to distraction.

"How much longer, do ye think, until we arrive?" She spoke quietly but clearly, startling him.

"I thought you were asleep," he replied, trying to compose himself.

"I was…in a way. I thought I drifted off, but I could still feel the train moving, and my head on your arm, and every time you moved a little..." she lifted her head off his shoulder and shook it, as if to clear it. Her face looked dreamy, but her eyes were bright. "I feel more tired and more awake than I've ever been. Which is utter nonsense, Charlie, but there you have it."

She reached over and took his hand, and smiled shyly up at him. "Thank you for the song. I've not been serenaded before, certainly not publicly."

There was something so dear about the way she looked, completely free of pretense, that he acted before he thought. He leaned over and kissed her, not as he had at the church, or at the wedding reception, a polite kiss for all to see, but as he had the night of the Bateses' celebration, at the closed door of his pantry: with abandon, and wanting, not just of the kiss, but for everything else that could follow. And she responded, her hand reaching up to stroke his cheek, and he sighed, and her mouth was opening ever so slightly…

She pulled away, glanced around as if there was anyone else to see in the empty car. She was taking air in gulping breaths, still squeezing his hand. Her other hand was at her lips, which were distractingly and attractively swollen.

She finally spoke, "That certainly wasn't first class car behavior." She grinned playfully at him, and then burst into tears.

"Elsie?" He was mortified. He had kissed her, and she was sobbing, publicly, on a train car. On a _first class_ train car. He handed her a handkerchief.

"I am _fine¸_ ye old booby," and he could see she was smiling through her tears. She leaned close to him, whispered. "I'm nervous, my dear. More nervous than I've ever been in my entire life. _Afraid_ , almost, by how nice it feels. By how nice _you_ feel." And her words, and her warm breath in the shell of his hear, sent thrills in every direction in his body.

"As am I. We are in this together, Elsie," he replied shakily. He was glad they had a few minutes before Scarborough. He didn't think it would be appropriate to stand at the moment.

"Ah, but Charlie, _you_ are a man, 'tis different."

"No, I am not 'a man'. I am _your_ man, your husband. Whatever happens, happens at the time that suits us both," he grinned a little at her, as her face was relaxing. She leaned against him again. "Preferably _not_ in a first class train car, on second thought, do you think?"

She laughed, and squeezed his arm, all traces of tears dried from her face. They watched the sea towns come into view, with their lovely, pastel-colored cabins dotting the beach and the cliffs.

"Next station, Scarborough!" The conductor's cry made them both jump.

They looked at each other and grinned.

"Here we go," she whispered.

oooOOOooo

It was beautiful, she thought, but she always loved the sea, and this town was particularly charming. The sun was just dropping into the western sky when they pulled into the station, casting lovely pinkish and purple tones across the faces of the buildings. She looked up at the grand sepia-colored hotel dominating the seaside, feeling intimidated. It was "grand" in actuality and name – The Grand Hotel Scarborough. She didn't want to appear ungrateful, knowing full well that their entirety of their honeymoon had been gifted by the Granthams, but even the sight of it made her jumpy and uncomfortable; the idea of rubbing elbows with posh people for the next several days. She was looking for a bit of a break from posh people, thank you very much.

Charles was smiling up at the building, however, and she supposed she could deal with her own insecurities and doubts for the look on her husband's face.

"'Tis a lovely hotel, and well-located," she finally spoke, pushing her own desire for a quiet, unassuming place to rest and relax out of her mind.

"That it is, and his lordship says they have magnificent dinners, which I am certain we'll sample at some point in the next few days," he paused, grinned at her. "But we're not staying here, Elsie." He nodded at a capped driver who'd greeted him by name and began loading their luggage.

"We're not?" She was truly shocked.

"No, we are not," he replied as they got into the waiting car. "Believe it or not, I can admit when I get things wrong, like I did with the wedding reception. And, yes, we _were_ booked at The Grand, but his lordship and I came up with another idea," he finished as the car turned out of the station, and they drove past the large hotel and down the main road for about a mile.

She sidled up to him. "My, my, you _are_ full of surprises, aren't you, Mr. Carson?" She looked out the window over his shoulder, at the expanse of sand, and the deep blue sea beyond. Even at this late hour, and early in the season, there were groups of twos, threes and fours walking along the water's edge.

"You somehow make that sound more familiar than when you call me 'Charlie,'" he responded teasingly.

"Aye, it _is_ more familiar, I've been addressing you that way for thirty years, at least," she replied, and the car turned down a smaller path, towards the water. Suddenly they were amidst a dozen or so small, pretty cabins, like the ones they had seen on the train ride here, all pale shades of blue, teal, green, and violet, each with a small outside seating area facing the sea. Elsie could see The Grand in the near distance, down the beach, as all of the hotel's external lamps came on at once. It seemed less daunting from the vantage point, somehow, more maternal, watching over the lingering crowds on the dunes.

The car stopped in front one of the cabins, a pale blue one, and the driver opened the door for them. He explained that these were owned by the hotel, an outpost of sorts, for those wanting a more casual but private experience, and that someone would leave a breakfast basket at their door each morning, and, when they returned in the afternoon from sightseeing or taking in the sea air, housekeeping would have straightened things up, and there'd be tea waiting. Anything else they needed, they were welcome to take at the Grand, including use of the telephone – there weren't any in the cabins.

Elsie stood gaping, trying to sort it out in her mind, while Charlie graciously thanked and tipped the lad. She followed her husband into the sitting area of the cabin, which was simply lovely inside: whitewashed wooden walls, the furniture in pale blues and greens. She could see the bedroom was done in a similar vein, and her heart sped up when she caught sight of the massive bed she'd be sharing with Charlie in a few brief hours. As she removed her hat and jacket, she took it all in: the small table was set with two places, a bowl of fresh fruit, a basket of pastries nestled in a folded napkin, a bouquet of wild flowers and beach reeds. A bottle of champagne was chilling in the ice box, according to a hand-written note, along with cold meats and cheeses.

Charlie was coming back into the sitting area after leaving their bags in the bedroom. She turned to him, not sure how to express the deep gratitude she felt right now: he understood her, really, truly, _saw_ her, knew what she wanted from this trip, from this break from the usual. This beginning of their life as a couple, rather than two complimentary cogs in Downton's wheelworks.

"Well? Is it alright, then?" He was standing there, worry creasing his forehead.

He'd taken his jacket off as well, and stood in his shirt sleeves. He looked concerned and unsure and just so very dear, so very _handsome,_ that she was across the room before she realized it, before she had time to think, or feel nervous or self-conscious, and she reached up and pulled his face towards hers, and he'd responded immediately, lifting her off her feet. She made a small, whimpering sound as their mouths met, and she felt _everything_ , her body reporting back to her from all directions: one of his arms pressing her firmly against him, his fingers tracing along her cheek, down her nape, and lingering at the neckline of her dress; her own hands, one hand brushing through his sweaty hair, the other around his shoulder tightly, lest she fall; but their mouths, _his_ mouth, what was happening there sent wild, wonderful shivers in every direction, various parts of her body calling out for _more, more, more_ in a grand cacophony: these kisses had no order, no control: his mouth was open, and so was hers; their tongues met, and if her mind was thinking at all, it would have thought how amazing it was that something so strange, so _intrusive,_ could feel so wonderful, so right, so thrilling, so perfect.

He broke the kiss before she did. She gasped for air, panting in a way that reminded her of the farm she grew up on, of the animals in rutting season, and she let out a watery laugh that was one part embarrassment and two parts desire. She felt dizzy with all of the nerves and sensations still firing off in her body.

He was staring down at her with hazy eyes, his arm still around her waist, pressing her close against him. She could feel him, hard against her, and it terrified her, oh yes, but there was a responding warmth radiating from her own groin. There were parts of her that weren't afraid, at all. But she needed a moment to get herself sorted, she felt.

She stepped away reluctantly, and he let her go with regret on his face. She then mock-primly answered him, "Yes, I think it's quite alright, Charlie."

He raised an eyebrow at her, and she stepped back towards him, wrapped her arms around his waist. He held her face in his hands, and she gazed up at him. "I shan't tease you about it. It's lovely, it's perfect. I am a bit overwhelmed, honestly, right now, about all of it. Not in a bad way, mind, just tryin' to catch up with meself."

"Well, we have time, dare I say it, for once in our lives," he replied. "So take what you need; I'll be waiting oh-so-impatiently for you," his smile softened the words, and he stroked her cheek. She pressed her lips into the palm of his hand. "Perhaps I'll take myself outside, and contemplate the sea, while you get settled."

He turned to walk outside, where the sitting area was. The sky was a riot of color, a breeze blowing as he opened the door.

"Charlie," she said, quietly. He turned. "Thank ye, for finding this place. For knowing me enough to know how much I'd love it here, rather than at yonder grand hotel. Thank ye, for loving me, as you do."

"And as I shall endeavor to do, all my days," he grinned at her, and went outside. She moved towards the bedroom, to ready herself. It was her wedding night, after all.

oooOOOooo

 _Charlie….Charlie….Charlie…._

There was a voice, and he knew it; there was also a breeze, lifting the hairs on his head and arms, and flavored with salt and sea; the regular, sonorous static of the surf; but mostly, the voice….

 _Charlie….Charlie…._

In the deep recesses of his dozing mind, he knew answering the voice was important, but he wasn't exactly sure why; he had such a sense of peace and contentment at the moment. And now, there was a soft hand stroking his face, and it smelled of lavender and vanilla and something else unique, a scent that only belong to one person, and he suddenly remembered where he was, and who he was with.

He opened his eyes.

And wondered, still, if he was actually awake. Elsie was standing there, in a long, white cotton nightgown and dressing gown. Her hair was in a simple braid over her shoulder, tendrils of it blowing in the sea air. Her feet and ankles were bare. She looked elfin and ethereal and beautiful.

"There you are," she grinned down at him, clutching at the front of her robe. "Are you going to sleep out in the elements on your wedding night, Mr. Carson?"

"I thought you were a dream," he said, and stood. She looked like a dream to him, the white fabric blowing against her body, showing him contours of her shape in such a way he knew that there was just those two thin layers of cotton between him and her skin. "Queen Titania."

"Puck the Sprite," she retorted, but she was smiling up at him. "Waking you from slumber, rather than casting a sleeping spell on you."

"Impertinence, thy name is –" and he scooped her up off her feet, and she yelped in surprise and delight, and he was cradling her in his arms, and she slung her arm around his shoulder, gripping tightly, "thy name is Elsie Carson."

And he carried her inside their honeymoon cabin, towards the bedroom.

oooOOOooo

When she had come upon him, sleeping so peacefully on the white deck chair in the setting sun, she wasn't sure what to do. She was reminded forcibly of Christmas Eve night, when she'd found him, deeply asleep in his pantry, when she tenderly kissed his forehead, but only because he'd been sleeping so soundly.

Only a half a year later, and there she was, standing in the sea breeze, with very little fabric between her body and the rest of the world, including her husband. She couldn't, and didn't, want to leave him sleeping, tonight of all nights. She was still very, very nervous, but her body was helping her mind along: it _wanted_ him, his touch, his closeness, very badly. _Perhaps, it's best not to overthink these things,_ and with that, she had begun whispering his name.

And now she was in her husband's arms, being purposefully carried into the bedroom, and she looked up at him, and realized what a very big man he was, especially in comparison to her. He laid her gently upon the bed, next to a window with the gauzy curtains drawn, where the last of the day's light was filtering through in a haze of orange. Despite Beryl Patmore's previous teasing, she'd kept one of the bedside lamps on low. She pushed herself up against the headboard, watching him do the mundane routines of an evening: taking off his vest, and setting the watch she'd given him on the nightstand; sitting on the edge of the bed, removing his shoes and socks, tucking the latter neatly into the former.

And though she was woozy with lust and fear, her heart also filled with love at the sight of these things, these little things, these small intimacies, that they would share from this day forward, until one of them was gone forever. He sat there for a minute, on the end of the bed, about three feet from her. He then moved forward, and stroked her hair, the length of her braid.

"I've never seen you without your hair pinned up," he spoke in that voice she was now thinking of her private voice, the voice of Charlie, not of Mr. Carson, butler of Downton Abbey and respectable figure of the village. His hand began unwinding the plait, and it felt so lovely, but she grabbed at his fingers.

"I am so very nervous, Charlie, which doesn't mean stop, it just means…slow."

"Your words have always been important to me. I am listening to you now more than I ever have in my life. You are my wife, and I cherish you," he rested his head against her breast and she cupped his face with her hand. And her breath deepened, she pulled his face back up to hers, and they began kissing again in earnest, but this was different: his body was over hers, and she was, again, suddenly, forcefully away of how physically large her husband was. And his hand were roaming over her body, untying her dressing gown, finding her breast and stroking it gently and she gasped at how _wonderful_ it felt.

He stopped, moved so he was lying beside her. "I am sorry." He looked chagrined and boyish, his hair falling over his forehead.

"Don't be," she whispered, giggled a bit madly. "It felt…very, very, nice. Though…though I was feeling a bit… _squashed_ , for a moment there, with you on top of me. I never quite noticed how much bigger you are than I am, Charlie."

"I have no intentions of… _squashing_ …you, Elsie," he replied, and then he started laughing too, and she joined him, both of them finding the word funny, and then they were moving towards each other again, and his lips found hers, his hands pulled off her dressing gown, and she helped him, shrugging out of it, leaving it to fall where it may. More items of clothing, many his, were discarded in a similar fashion.

What she was aware of, mostly, was their breathing, which was synchronizing, rather than the sporadic and harried and frenzied panting of earlier in the night, or on the train. And his hands were running rhythmically up and down the length of her torso, and had she really been worried about being embarrassed, of not being enough for him? Her body felt as if it were doing something it had been intended to do, all along, it was like a ribbon unwound, unspooling, this feeling that something was opening up inside of her.

"Elsie?"

"Yes, Charlie?"

"Is it alright? Can I..?"

"Yes, please. Please…please."

And when they joined together, and he moved inside of her, it was brief pain, and building pleasure, and she felt the weight of her man. And welcomed it, with open arms, and an open heart.


	26. Another Picture Postcard Day

Chapter 26

Another Picture Postcard Day

She woke early, as she nearly always did, as dawn began filtering through the curtains. There was so many things different about this morning than any morning before it that she lay for a moment taking stock. She heard a bicycle stop outside, followed by a muted thump by the front door, and then squeaky wheels retreating. That'd be breakfast from the hotel.

She smiled a little, sighed, watching the sky change from indigo to pink to orange and pale blue. She felt Charlie's slumbering bulk behind her, not quite snoring, but that deep breathing of someone still fast asleep. Each exhale tickled her neck, made her loose hair dance a little.

She sat up, absentmindedly plaiting her hair, took stock of her body, and thought back to what her Mam had said to her all those years ago, about the weight of taking on a man, a husband. She wasn't sure she felt that, exactly; it was more of a _settling_ , of certain loose bits and pieces of her, things she wasn't sure she had use of before yesterday, finally finding where to land inside of her. Physically, she felt more present than she ever had in her life; parts of her throbbed and pulsed, in a sore but pleasant way: her lips, her breasts, and the more insistent throb between her legs.

And it was more than her body, it was her mind and heart: she deeply valued her independence, and nothing would change that; but she admitted to herself, as she lay there listening to the rumble of her husband's breath mixed with the more distant rumble of the surf, that, for a long while before he proposed, she'd wanted more from Charles Carson than what their special but limited friendship at Downton would have ever allowed.

 _This_ is what she had wanted, and it was too difficult to determine exactly _when_ things had changed. When she stopped being satisfied with intellectual stimulation, the teasing and jokes, and camaraderie, and genuine affection, all of those things that each meant something but didn't add up to a whole. Even her own reticence and insecurities about the physical and practical intimacies of marriage, of a certain amount of submission to another person: she hadn't _really_ understood, had she?

She had sent poor Beryl Patmore on an unfair errand – she had been unfair to all of them: Beryl for putting her in that awkward position, herself for not trusting what _could be_ and was already happening between she and the man she agreed to marry, and most of all, Charlie: he, who _had_ known, anything less than all of it, _everything_ , would have been a sham. There would have been no point to it; they may as well simply carry on as they were.

But, thankfully, she was here. She sighed again, contentedly, and pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her simple cotton nightgown around her legs, as she had done when she was a small child.

"Where are you going?" His sleepy voice behind her, his hand reaching for her.

"Nowhere but here, thank goodness," she replied, and looked over her shoulder at him. He was propped up on his shoulder, his hair in disarray. He sat up, began unwinding her braid.

"I just tidied that up, and now ye're unraveling it," she chided him, as he combed his fingers through her waves.

"You set too much store on 'tidy', I think," and now he was pulling her back down towards him. She went willingly.

"Says the man who, at least three times a year, takes every single piece of silver at Downton and obsessively spot polishes it all," she retorted, lying back down next him, face to face.

"I wouldn't say 'obsessively', I don't think, just as it is needed, as befitting a house such as Downton," his face creased in a way that was all too familiar from the past few decades, and she started giggling. He raised his eyebrow at her, and she laughed even harder.

"I can honestly say, Charlie, I didn't expect to be talking about silver polish on our honeymoon. But somehow, it's romantic," she finished, and her laughter had dried up. His face was close to hers, and she traced her fingers along his eyebrows, his hairline.

He kissed her and then began running his hand through her hair again. He spoke in a much different voice than a few moments ago, "I won't tell you how long I imagined what you looked like with your hair down, just like this, because we are here now, and that's all that matters, all that _can_ matter. So I ask for your forgiveness in advance, as I don't expect you'll be able to keep it _tidy_ when we're on our own if I am allowed my way."

And she was instantly struck by an obvious truth: _he_ too, at some point, maybe long before she had, had been less than satisfied with what they were allowed to have with each other, by society and each of their places in it. That, for all of the independence she worried about shedding, it had been on _him_ to take action; she knew all along he would have to be the catalyst of any great change in the status quo. _That_ was the weight _he_ carried.

"This all took us too long, didn't it?" She moved herself closer still, pressed into him.

"I am only grateful that we are here _now,_ " and his voice left no doubt that the breakfast at the door would be kept waiting a bit longer.

oooOOOooo

A life, so long lived by, for and within the established rules, suddenly given permission to break them all. Well, at least most of them. The celebratory champagne was still sitting in the ice box, which didn't bother him any; he felt woozy on freedom not even twelve hours into his honeymoon.

To be sure, this punch-drunk feeling was almost entirely due to the physical proximity and availability of one Mrs. Elsie Carson. Years of restraint, propriety and uncertainty falling away in space of hours, in this haven by the sea. He knew, practically speaking, that a honeymoon was a respite from reality, and that their lives would shift once again upon their return to Downton, but he relished the privacy and the anonymity they had in Scarborough, in excess.

Oh, and all of the time.

So much time.

For two people who had spent nearly three-quarters of their respective lives in service, even one whole day without obligation was largesse. They had an entire _week_.

This morning he'd slept until the sun was over the horizon, and awoke to his wife's face in profile, a half smile on her face. He had felt desire and love and contentment in equal measure. And, proving that last night was not a fluke, or something she considered with worry or regret or disgust, they had made love again as the sea birds cried plaintively outside.

And now she was sitting across from him, as she had for years at Downton, but with so many differences it was laughable: she was in her nightgown, her hair loose and falling over her shoulders, eating grapes and cheese and bread as if they were her final meal. Neither of them had eaten since yesterday's wedding lunch, and he was hungrier himself than he'd been since he was a young man. _Acting like a besotted boy makes one hungry,_ he grinned and tucked into the food as well. He certainly _was_ besotted.

"Charlie."

"Hmmm?" He sipped his tea, then added more milk. It was very strong. He knew that's how she liked it.

"It suddenly occurred to me: we've nothing to do today," she looked as if she couldn't quite believe it.

"We'll think of something, I'm sure," his eyebrow, up; her eyes, rolling.

"And somehow, _I've_ got the reputation for impertinence," she swatted his arm. He grabbed her hand, kissed it gallantly. Was rewarded with another eye roll. He then wondered how he missed something he'd not had until now. But he had. He had felt this missing from his life, from _her_ , for what seemed like forever.

"Well, if I remember correctly, the last time we were seaside it was because you somehow hornswoggled me into a trip to Brighton with the entire staff of Downton, foreswearing anything educational or historical as an alternative," he began, smiling at her. He'd not soon forget that day, wading into the water with her, taking her hand, with intent. It was the day he began planning for this day, this eventuality, in earnest. Difficult to believe it was nearly two years ago.

"I've not a clue what you're on about," she replied, sipping her tea primly. "We both know that you cannot be persuaded if you're in a mind to do something. I remember something about the Crystal Palace, but to the best of my recollection, you came up with that seaside trip all on your own."

"In any case," he continued, intentionally ignoring her cheek, "What do you think of a day at Scarborough Castle, with a picnic on the cliffs nearby? We can learn something of the local history and take in the views, which are something to be seen, according to his lordship."

"Well, I think that sounds lovely, Charlie. I best go tidy myself up for all of Scarborough to see. And you must _leave_ me tidy, understand?" She took the last sip of her tea, and stood. She came around to his side of the table, leaned over and kissed his forehead.

She sighed, her cheek pressed against his head. "I love you, Charles Carson. And I am so glad I can tell you so, when I have the mind to." And she went off to the bedroom, to pin up her hair.

oooOOOooo

The views from the Castle were spectacular – his lordship had been right on that account. Both the north and south bays of the city were viewable, and Elsie loved the sight of the tiny, colorful houses and cottages, seemingly stacked in rows along the beaches and cliff side, and the tranquilly bobbing boats dotting the dark, glassy water.

Charlie got entrenched in the Castle's history, ferreting out unusual and obscure facts from one of the guides, who was more than happy to share his knowledge with so enthusiastic an audience. Elsie's pleasure came not from arcane statistics from centuries ago, but rather in watching her husband's delight in the same.

Her joy came in being a tourist for the first time in her life, the idea of leisure time so foreign and delectable, as so many things on this honeymoon were turning out to be. She'd never regret her time at Downton, if only for it as a means to provide security for her sister, and her own chance to be Charles Carson's colleague, friend, lover and wife, though there were many other people who made her life happy there as well; but as democracy reared it's not-always-welcome head in England, she could understand why sharp girls who reminded her of herself when she was young were now becoming secretaries, or teachers, or journalists, or working in smart shops, or a myriad of other pursuits, rather than a life in service: _time._

Time was precious, and time was never promised; and with a life in service, her time, for so much of her life, had not been her own. Now, for a few days, at least, she had a wealth of time. And she intended to cherish it.

Such as sitting in the tall grasses on the Castle grounds, on a gentle hill dotted with other picnickers, leaning back on the blanket they had brought, watching the clouds hurry across the blue sky. They could hurry, but she wouldn't. A few children were flying box kites in the sea breeze, their shrieks of intermittent triumph and failure cutting through the afternoon air. She noticed Charlie watching them with a rueful smile on his face, and she nudged him.

"Go ask yon lads if you can have a turn. I am sure they'd let you," she nudged him, grinned.

He smiled sheepishly at her, but he hopped up and wandered over to them, and she could hear him speaking to them in a teacherly but kind voice, showing them how best to keep the kite aloft for the longest amount of time. She watched his tall figure run, holding the kite as high as he could, encouraging one boy with a mop of dark hair to hold the string tight, tight, _tight!_ And she thought how he'd never been a father, nor a grandfather. And she shook her head, thinking that he'd been and still was a great many things to many of the younger people in their lives, just as important and influential as any paternal figure. Life gave you plenty of room for regret, but not enough time for it. It was best to carry on without it.

She grinned. The kite was flying high, and going even higher.

oooOOOooo

They returned to the little light blue cabin and an enormous tea was waiting for them. They laughed to see so much food after their late breakfast and picnic lunch and decided to let it wait.

"Let's go dip our toes in the surf, shall we?" He suggested, and the both stepped outside onto the little sitting area where he drifted off to sleep the night before. Toes properly prepared for a walk in the sand, they made their way to the foamy surf, nodding to other happy late-afternoon strollers and sunbathers.

They watched the fishing boats come in, after a long day's work, headed towards the marina down near The Grand. The golden light soon was tinged with rose and orange, but neither of them made a move to head back to their cottage, not yet; the sea held them in its thrall.

He glanced over at her, and she at him.

"That day at Brighton, after Lady Rose's ball, when you offered me your hand," he finally said. "I already loved you, of course, but it was _that_ day, on that beach, I decided I must do something about it, or die a fool."

"I didn't know," she moved closer to him, and he put his arm around her.

"How could you have? How many moments have there been, in our long lives, that might have spurred me into action?"

"My, my, how was I to know my entire life hinged on a bit of well-timed flirting?" She laughed, but it was gentle.

"That, and a well-placed seaside postcard."

She gasped. And started laughing, looked up at him. "I just wanted the staff to have a nice, relaxing time, feel the sand on my own feet. Look where it's got me."

"I still have it."

"The postcard? Ye never do."

"I do indeed. It was like a love letter with a message I didn't quite understand."

"Aye, well you seem to understand it just fine now," she splashed him a little with her foot, and he leaned down and kissed her, as the tide came in.


	27. A Man's Value

**A/N: All of you lovely, lovely readers. I am SO glad you enjoyed the wedding + honeymoon chapters, as much as I loved writing them. This next chapter picks up at the tail end of the show's run. I hemmed and hawed about including a chapter upon their return to Downton, but much of what was given to us in the show regarding their initial cohabitation was rather silly, in my humble opinion, and not very fair to the characters at all, excepting the Christmas Special, which is why I am picking up basically where the final scene leaves off.**

 **I know you want to get to the story, and I am getting to it; bear with me, if you will. (Or, heck, skip my blathering and read the story, ahahahaha). I have ALWAYS felt that one of the characters that has wonderful, intricate potential who was flattened into a paper villain was Thomas. It was a bit too little, too late, waaaaay too rushed, but there was a bit of redemption for him in the end (both literally and in the development of the character). One of the things I've been thinking about as I write this is that once Charles retires, Elsie and Thomas will mirror the ages of Mrs. Davis and Charles at the beginning of my story. It's an interesting parallel I hope to explore a bit. Carson gets a visit from Mary, as well, but never fear - Chelsie is together at the end of the chapter, as we want them to be.**

 **~CeeCee**

In the early hours of 1926

She was tired, her heart was sore - as were her feet, frankly, from all of the running around the day had brought. But her heart was also grateful to be here, ringing in the New Year. Her life, Charlie's life, _their_ life was going to change drastically in the next few months, again. Before they'd even gotten to celebrate their first wedding anniversary, but they would manage, together.

After she'd sung, he'd kissed her briefly again, and with a long look, moved away to socialize with the others, reassure them and himself that he was just fine, thank you very much. She knew his sorrow would unspool over the following days and weeks, the farewell he would make to his life's work, and, for many years, his life's purpose. He loved Downton in ways she never had; much of his self-worth was tied to his identity as the butler of this house and to his devotion to the Crawley family. She would have to remind him of how much more he was, and that the value of what he had done here wasn't erased the minute he left.

Aye, but the world really _was_ changing, faster and faster, with each passing day. She looked around the servants' hall from her corner, and studied who was most important to _her_ : the people she spent every day with, or nearly so. Daisy, whom she had worried would live her life in a perpetual girlhood, had taken a leap: she looked like a young starlet, chatting with Andy, not shying away as she'd done with other suitors who showed her any interest since William had died, finding ways to doggedly educate herself, or with the help of others, lapping up knowledge thirstily.

And watching Charlie chat with Miss Baxter and Mr. Molesley, who was gaining confidence every time she saw him, Elsie wondered just how many weddings she might be attending in the New Year. _Love is in the air, it seems. Or maybe, it's love AND change, together. Change making love possible for more people._ She saw Mr. Mason and Beryl Patmore in deep conversation, observed Daisy grinning at them. Beryl caught Elsie looking, grew pink and then toasted her glass up at Elsie with a quick wink. Elsie grinned at her friend, returned the toast.

She thought of the wee Bates baby, so longed for, already so loved, on the first night of his life, hopefully slumbering peacefully in his mother's arms, in Lady Mary's grand bedroom above them. That sweet _bairn_ had been born into a changing, exciting world. One moving from what they all knew into something new, different.

"Care for a little more, Mrs. Hughes?" Thomas was at her elbow and she turned to him. Now that things had settled down a little, she could see that the younger man was pale and tired-looking, as if he'd spent his time away from Downton in a sleepless daze. He was such a mass of contradictions: spiteful, troublesome and vindictive; and yet he looked at her now, with such hesitance and a desire to please. She remembered the day he left, when he was saying good-bye to the children. This man had a heart; he'd just wrapped so many barbs and thorns around it, you'd be sliced to ribbons trying to get to it.

Maybe he understood that now.

Maybe she could help him. She wanted to. She thought of all of the limitations she had on her life, for most of her life, as a woman, as a person without means. All of the things she could never do, or have. But she could, _did_ have love, of all sorts, and a husband who held her close every night. Thomas couldn't have the latter, not really, not in the world as it was. He needed all of the understanding and care she could muster.

"Aye, yes please, Thomas - Mr. Barrow," she replied. "I don't know why I said that; you've been Mr. Barrow for some time now."

"That's quite alright, Mrs. Hughes. You called me by my Christian name for years, you did. It's rather a nice reminder of how long we've known each other," he smiled, so uncertain, waiting for her to respond scathingly, perhaps bitterly, to the man who'd stepped into her husband's position in the space of a conversation.

"We have, at that. Ye've learned a lot in those years, I'd like to think," she smiled gently at him, took the wine bottle. "You've worked very hard this evening, Mr. Barrow, on a night that you were _supposed_ to be a guest. I'm grateful, and so is Mr. Carson." They both looked over at the man in question for a moment, then turned back to each other. She picked up an empty glass from the table, filled it, passed it to him. He took it, looking a bit nonplussed.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes," he was visibly struggling to continue, and she put her hand on his arm.

"It's alright, Mr. Barrow. It's alright to be glad that you're back here, as it's where you belong. Your happiness doesn't change Mr. Carson's illness, or the facts of the matter. He'd have to...he'd have to step down, regardless," she could feel the tears burning the back of her eyes, her throat. Burning there for Charlie, for what he was losing, but she pressed on. "He's not glad to be going, but, mind me, I know he'll feel secure in the fact that someone who loves and knows Downton, as _he_ does, will be taking his place."

She could see him fighting his own tears, and she knew they were tears of relief. He was a man who thought he'd run clear of chances, of anything resembling happiness. And then, in minutes, he was handed it again. And she was telling him it was alright, to be happy. Or at least trying to be.

Thomas looked down at his hands, then back up at her. A single tear had escaped, and was rolling down his cheek. He swiped at it, and a small smile appeared on his face.

"You're a good woman, Mrs. Hughes," he started, and she was reminded of when William Mason, dear, sweet, earnest William, had told her the same, solidifying her decision to stay at Downton, rather than take Joe Burns up on his renewed offer of marriage. "You're fair, but you take the time to try and understand us all, even when we don't understand ourselves."

She smiled a little at him in response, and they stood there for a moment without speaking. Her heart was still so very sad, but she now could see some good in the situation as well. The young man standing beside her had been so desolate, so _alone_ , this summer, he'd tried to take his own life. Now, he was trying to take it back. It would be a challenge; he would have to open himself up to people, to kindness, to resolving conflicts with care and humanity. She hoped he could. She _thought_ he could.

"Mrs. Hughes?"

"Yes, Mr. Barrow?"

"Will...will you help me? Once Mr. Carson is gone, for the most part, will you help me get it right?"

Her heart clenched. "Aye, Mr. Barrow, I will. Even though I don't get it right meself, sometimes. And keep in mind I asked Mr. Carson the same favor over thirty years ago, and look where it got us." She turned to Thomas, grinning, holding back laughter.

Now Downton's new butler really _did_ smile at her, a genuine smile, and it changed his face entirely. "Well, Mrs. Hughes, I believe that, for a variety of reasons, we'll not repeat history on that particular point." And now she did laugh, and so did he.

"Happy New Year, Mrs. Hughes."

"Happy New Year, Mr. Barrow. And congratulations."

oooOOOooo

He looked across the servants' hall at Elsie, deep in conversation with Thomas Barrow. He searched inside of himself, trying to figure out how he felt about the man that would now replace him. He decided that it was appropriate to feel a little resentful of any man taking his place; no one could love Downton or the Crawleys, no one _knew_ this house or the family the way that he did – how could he? But Thomas had shown, against all odds and despite personal quirks that made him, Charles, uncomfortable, how dedicated and attached he was to Downton as well. Not in the same way he was, but perhaps that was alright…the world was changing and so was the role of the butler of a grand house, whether he liked it or not.

He wasn't pleased to be passing Downton off to anyone, but he took some comfort that the younger man was deeply invested here, in the way someone new wouldn't be. And, if he was honest with himself, someone whom he had influence over, as he did with Thomas. As he watched, Elsie took the wine bottle from the younger man, poured him a glass. The man looked worried and tired, almost sick. Then his wife placed her hand on his sleeve, spoke briefly, and Thomas' face suddenly relaxed. They exchanged a few words and then they were both laughing.

 _How does she do it?_ He was nearly overwhelmed with love for his wife in this moment, with her ability to find the right thing to make someone feel safe, and understood. Even as she made it clear she'd brook no nonsense, thank you very much. She and Thomas had been joined by Daisy and Andy, and she glanced away from the younger folks' conversation to find him. She must have seen what he was feeling on his face, as she so often could, and responded with merely a look from across the room: her love, her concern, her understanding that this would not be easy for him, her own relief at the solution his lordship and Lady Mary had come to.

He'd hid the palsy from her for so long, _too_ long, he now realized, but it was so wrapped up in shame and frustration and fear of getting old, he didn't want to admit it to himself, let alone his very new wife. This feeling of being obsolete. But now he understood none of those things really mattered to at least one person in the room, and he was endlessly grateful of that fact.

He had just turned back to the conversation with Miss Baxter and Mr. Molesley, when Lady Mary appeared in the doorway, looking even more radiant than usual. She immediately quelled any offers of anything, and merely announced,

"I simply came down here again to wish you all a very Happy New Year, and to escort someone else down who certainly deserves a toast," and she turned and pulled John Bates into the room. The man looked tired and pleased and embarrassed all at once. There were cheers and shouts of congratulations.

"Thank you, m'lady," he smiled again as someone pressed a drink into his hand. "I'll not linger long, but Anna shooed me out of the room for a bit. Said I needed to stretch my legs a little."

"Does the wee _bairn_ have a name, Mr. Bates?" Elsie walked up to him, kissed his cheek.

"That he does," John Bates grinned, and his face crinkled with happiness. "William John, he'll be."

"A fine name," Charles piped up. "To William John Bates!" And everyone else echoed his sentiment. He suddenly realized Lady Mary was at his side.

"Carson, might I see you in the hallway?" He looked down at her. She looked rather fragile, very unlike her usual self.

"Of course, m'lady," he left the servants' hall, feeling the weight of Elsie's gaze on the way out, her curiosity and concern.

"What can I do for you, m'lady?" He looked down at her, remembering her as a little girl, as a confident and beautiful young woman, resistant to any plans that would be made on her behalf, without her input. He remembered how soft she became once she allowed herself to love Matthew Crawley, and how destroyed she was by his death. How unsure she had seemed, and he for her, that she would ever find another husband worthy of her. Henry Talbot, car manufacturer and former race car driver, was about as far from what he's envisioned for the lady beside him, but even he could see how well-suited they were: she was softening again, and more people could see what _he'd_ always seen in her.

He continued, "I know that this night has been peppered with inconveniences – the baby, and this…this…"he held up his shaking hand, utterly embarrassed and frustrated and angered.

"Nonsense," she replied smoothly. "I've seen Edith happily married today, which is a miracle in and of itself. Anna has the baby's she's been so longing for…and, and, my dear champion, Papa has found a solution to the problem of who will replace you – as if anyone really could – that makes everyone feel as best as they can in the circumstances."

She lifted her eyebrow, paused for a moment. "I also wanted to share one last piece of good news with you, before someone else does," she smiled, and her cheeks grew pink. "Baby Talbot will be in the nursery before summertime."

"That is wonderful news, m'lady, congratulations. I am truly delighted for you and Mr. Talbot," he was, and he could see how pleased she was, truly happy. It did his heart good.

"So, you see Carson, we'll need you here, helping Barrow out," she spoke lightly, but he swore he saw tears shining in her eyes. "We'll be hosting a grand christening and lawn party, and he'll need your guidance on how to do things properly."

Something in him softened and loosened, and he nearly began weeping. Lady Mary Talbot, composed and often aloof, was endeavoring to remind him of his value. And reassure _herself_ that he wasn't going anywhere, not really.

oooOOOooo

It was late, and they were both very tired. They walked back to the cottage in near silence, in the wee hours of the morning. She didn't want to push him to speak, but she took his right hand, the traitorous one, and squeezed it gently in the near-dark. Clouds scuttled overhead, the midwinter stars gleaming down on them with their cold blue light.

Before they had left the celebration in the servants' hall, Thomas had assured her he would handle anything that needed handling in the morning, along with Mrs. Patmore, Mr. Molesley and Miss Baxter, suggesting they take their time coming to work on New Year's Day, which notoriously had a late start most years, and would certainly after last night's revelry.

It was all too much to take in properly, this late, but she ached to reassure Charlie that things would be alright; not exactly as he had wanted, but that life still had opportunities and industriousness, and that Thomas taking over at Downton allowed him to still be a part of it all.

They started readying themselves for bed; there was an easy, comfortable routine of it, after a half a year of marriage. It was hard to believe, sometimes, she had lived any other way, and there was a dearness to these daily rituals, these mundane intimacies, that warmed her, made her feel complete. She was unpinning and brushing her hair when she heard a mournful sound behind her.

She turned from her vanity and saw him sitting in the chair by their bedroom window, his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking. Her big, strong, proper, reserved, polished husband was sobbing like his heart would break. She walked over and placed her hands on his head, and he pulled her into his lap, buried his face in her neck.

 _That's it, my dear, let it all out,_ she thought, but didn't speak out loud. Sometimes, words were unnecessary; detrimental, even. There was nothing she could say to take this sadness away from him; she could only _be_ here with him, to share it. He held her tightly around her waist, and finally looked up at her. She gently reached down and brushed the tears off his face, then bent and softly began kissing where they had dampened his cheeks. She felt him relax, then sigh.

His shaking hand alit in her hair, like a butterfly unsure of a flower's potency. She leaned into it, and he pulled her towards him, kissing her. He stood with her in his arms again, as he had on their wedding night, and she relished in his strength, in the proof of it, for her, and for him. He set her on top of the comforter, and she pulled him on top of her, the welcome, familiar weight of him, and let all of the things she had, beyond words, beyond logic or practicality, remind him of who he was and always would be: Charles Carson, much loved, always cherished, by her.


	28. The Shape of a Family

**Chapter 28 – The Shape of a Family**

 **A/N: Readers, I have to tell you: I am dreading the fact that this story is much nearer to its end than its beginning! It's the longest fanfic I've written, and I am really steeped in these characters and their world. There are still a few chapters left – maybe five or six or so – but we are nearing the end! Alas! I may have injected a bit of humor into this chapter to battle my ennui that the story is nearly all told.**

 **I'm also wavering on my ending; I may need to leave them both happy and alive, or my** ** _own_** **heart will break. ~CeeCee**

May, 1926

"How is it that on a day that I am headed to Downton, _you_ are staying home?" He regarded her over their simple breakfast, taking a sip of tea. She was still in her dressing gown, her hair in loose braid – for once.

"Because I planned it that way," she grinned at him, took a bite of toast and jam. "This place needs a cleaning, top to bottom, and I certainly don't need you underfoot, or heaven forfend, offering guidance."

"Well, if you're going to do something, it's best to do it as properly and thoroughly as possible," he raised an eyebrow at her, and she rolled her eyes at him.

"I do believe, _Mr. Carson_ , I have several years' experience of general knowledge surrounding the running, management and care of a household. I should be able to muddle through quite well, tidying this place up. Shall I send you my reference letters?" She stood and gathered his empty plates. As she bent down, he unwound her hair with a deft twist that came with near-daily practice.

" _Must_ you?" She grinned exasperatedly at him.

"I must," he responded, stood, kissed her. "Well, I best be off. Barrow expects me by nine o'clock, after breakfast has been cleared."

"You must get a peek at the baby, if you can. He's a beauty, for sure, though I suppose with a set of parents such as Lady Mary and Mr. Talbot, the odds were high he'd be a stunner."

"Reginald Henry Talbot," he intoned. "Quite a fine handle for a young man, once he grows into it. We'll have to plan the christening accordingly."

"Well, I know that whatever you and Mr. Barrow come up with, Lady Mary will be inclined to be pleased," she replied, setting the plates near the sideboard and returning to his side, re-braiding her hair. He let it be, though she shot him a mock-wary glance as she did it up, and though he was sorely tempted to run his hands through it again.

He knew she was right, but he was still warmed to hear her say it. And he still felt the pull to prove his worth, though he'd not been at Downton full-time for over two months now. He had an idea marinating in the back of his head on that count, one that he planned to discuss with Thomas Barrow today and see what the new butler of Downton, who had the advantage of a more youthful perspective, thought about it, before talking to much about it. His right hand was still a traitor to the rest of his body, but he felt as healthy and strong and as willing to work as he ever had, otherwise.

"You look rather dashing, Charlie, in that suit, in street clothes, rather than a livery," she smiled, smoothed his lapels as he reached for his hat.

"You're only trying to make me feel better about things, Elsie, don't think I don't know that," he placed his bowler on his head.

"I never dole out a compliment I cannot stand behind," she replied, kissing him again soundly, pushing him out the door. "Now, off with you. Before that glorious house comes down around their heads without ye there to plan the party for their glorious new baby."

oooOOOooo

After Charlie left, she cleaned up the breakfast dishes and went to get dressed for a day of spring cleaning. She secured her hair firmly and tied an old scarf over it. She found a cotton blouse and was about to step into a very old skirt when she remembered something: Anna had been by a few weeks ago with wee William for a visit and had presented Elsie with something that she thought she'd never wear, no matter _how_ progressive she considered herself: a pair of casual ladies' trousers.

The younger woman had been earnest regarding their usefulness:

"Mind you, Mrs. Hughes, I'd never wear them outside of the house, as fashionable London ladies do, or even as Lady Mary does, when she's riding, but I _must_ admit, they are quite convenient when there's a bit of heavy housework to do, especially if I have to move quickly to get to this one here," she peppered her son's head with kisses, and the baby had giggled delightedly. Anna had not returned to work at Downton yet; Elsie suspected she may never. Not that Anna wasn't a dedicated and hard worker; she just adored her son, and being a mother, so much, she was greedy for time with the wee lad.

Elsie smiled as she rummaged around in her closet until she found the item of clothing in question. They were as unassuming as a piece of clothing could be: tan, made of serge. She pulled them on and buttoned the waistband, which was slightly loose on her. She tucked the shirt in, all the while trying to decide how she felt about them. It was funny, in a way: she was of an age where corsets had been a way of life, so much so that women simply got used to them, until the day they were considered obsolete by all except the oldest generation. She'd been used to being squeezed 'round the middle for years, and yet the feeling of the trousers, lightly hugging her legs, hips and midsection was strange and new. She decided she liked them.

Then she looked at herself in the mirror.

And burst out laughing. Peering back at her was a woman who appeared to be a cross between an aviatrix and a lad selling newspapers on the street corner. Ah, well. She was comfortable and they were suited to the dirty work of deep cleaning a house.

She set to work, occasionally stopping to wind the Victrola that Lady Rose had sent to them as a wedding gift last year, humming along with the music unselfconsciously as she set about scrubbing, dusting, and rearranging. Late in the morning, she came across several boxes stuffed with a random assortment of ticket stubs, old photographs, and the other ephemera of life. The boxes were small, but in total disarray. She sat right on the floor and began sorting through them.

She came across a formal portrait of Becky from about a dozen years ago. She stopped and thought of her sister for a moment; the nurse Elsie had met all of those years ago, Kathryn, had written this week to let her know that Becky's health was declining. Elsie's understanding of it was that, whatever trick of nature, fate or God had scrambled her sister's mind had also tampered with the efficiency of her heart, and now it was beginning to fail. She needed to visit Lytham St. Annes, and soon. She wondered if Charlie would accompany her, or if Becky's disability would make him too uncomfortable. She set the picture aside, deep in thought.

She continued to sort and organize the boxes, stopping every now and then to linger on a memory conjured by a scrap of paper or something else equally unassuming. About a half hour in she found something that made her laugh out loud: A colorful postcard depicting the Brighton seaside. She stood and walked it over to the small corkboard they had in their kitchen. She kissed it before she pinned it up.

"Ye old booby, _ye_ did keep it," she whispered, thinking how funny life is sometimes, how something small can become so significant.

A knock at the door shook her from her reverie. She was halfway to opening it when she realized the state she was in. Then she shrugged to herself – ah, well. The visitor would get an eyeful of her, she supposed, but nothing untoward.

Beryl Patmore stood there, a lunch basket in her hand. "Mr. Carson said you were usin' yer day off to straighten up the place; he certainly downplayed your dedication, Mrs. Hughes," she bustled in, walked over to the table. "I brought lunch for the both of us, I thought you'd like a break, and I need yer advice on somethin'."

Elsie joined her to help unpacking and Beryl Patmore finally took her in completely. "What in heaven's name are you a'wearin'?" She chuckled a little as she put sandwiches onto a plate.

"Trousers. Anna gave them to me, they're quite comfortable, though I'd not leave the house in them, I don't think."

"Mr. Carson's never seen you in them, I'm guessin'?"

"No, I think not, I just put them on for the first time today, after he left to speak to Mr. Barrow about the christening," both women laughed at how Elsie's husband would react to her rather non-traditional attire as they sat down to lunch.

"And how is that getting on, the plans for the christening?" Elsie grinned at her friend.

Beryl Patmore rolled her eyes, but then her face softened. "Don't breathe a word of this, yeh hear me? But…well, there was something rather…endearing about the two of 'em, Mr. Carson and Mr. Barrow, their heads bent together over Mr. Barrow's desk, Mr. Carson's, as it were, both workin' very hard to not irritate the other, if you understand my meaning?"

Elsie's heart squeezed a little in her chest, thinking of both of the men, the younger trying to repair the mistakes he'd made, the older, trying to hold on to the essence of who he was, and let out a sound somewhere between a sigh and a chuckle, in the end. "What it sounds like, Mrs. Patmore, is more work for _us_ , I think."

"Oh, no doubt about that, Mrs. Hughes. The amount of food they've got on the menu as it stands, would feed an army or more."

The laughed, but both were thoughtful for a few moments.

"Thank you for the lunch, I was so entrenched here I might have gone all afternoon without fortification," Elsie began, knowing that her friend was here for something more.

"You're quite welcome, thought it comes at a price, I suppose," Beryl paused, looked at her hands, looked back up at Elsie. "I need your consideration on something that's been nagging me, if you'd lend your ear?"

"Of course. Goodness knows, I owe you a favor or two, over the years," Elsie was almost certain she knew where this was going.

"Well, I am sure you have an idea where I'm a'headin', but perhaps not exactly," her friend responded, voicing her thoughts.

Elsie grinned a little and Beryl reddened a little. "Mr. Mason?"

"Yes, Mr. Mason, Albert, as it were."

"Albert, indeed?" Elsie teased gently, but she was pleased for her friend. _Forget about the young ones, we old ladies aren't doing so badly, it seems._ "Are you sending me on a mission to Yew Tree Farm, to determine his exact intentions?" She hoped the joke would help Beryl relax. Sometimes talking about these things was _so_ awkward.

"Oh, ho, if only I could require that you return the favor, you know I would," Beryl retorted, and both women started giggling a little. "But, you may be surprised to hear, we have that side of things…sorted out." She paused, got redder, if that was possible. "I suppose it helps when one person's been…been through it, already."

Elsie wiped tears of laughter from her eyes. "So…he's proposed then?"

"Yes, he has, in so many ways and so many words. What I mean is, he's very clear about what he wants, and I want the same thing, I think. It just wasn't something I was expectin', at this point in my life, if you understand me?"

"I am certain that I do," she gestured to the cottage around her.

"Not the way you think you do, _Mrs. Carson_ , and I'll tell you why," Beryl Patmore was grinning widely now, and shaking a finger at her. "The two of you have been dancing around and around and finally towards _this_ ever since I got to Downton, and perhaps even before that. It was an inevitability, as far I'm concerned."

"It didn't feel as certain on this side of things, I just want you to know that. I'll not disagree with you, and if anyone understands us, it's _you_ , but there you have it. Sometimes I look around and wonder how I got here."

"Well, I suppose I can believe that; the pair of you certainly did drag it out, after all," her smile softened the sharp words. "But, in my case, in Albert's…well, he's a very good, very fine man, isn't he? I find that I am quite fond of him, in fact. That I look forward to seeing him, visiting the farm, with Daisy and Andy."

"Why that's not a _ringing_ declaration of love, I don't see it as a bad start, Mrs. Patmore," she responded, knowing there was more, hoping she would muster the trust in her to continue.

"That's just it – I _do_ care for him, a great deal, and he does for me, if he's to be believed. And I _do_ believe him. It may sound silly to you, but we – Albert and I – we think of the four of us – he and I, plus Daisy and Andy, as a family-like, already. We know the young folk are working their way towards gettin' married themselves, once Andy musters the courage to propose, and well, I dunno. Daisy's the closest thing I'll ever have to daughter. I've known her since she was barely more'n a girl, cleaning out the fires at Downton. I'm not sure her own mum could love 'er, be more proud of 'er, more than I do. So I'm saying 'yes' to Mr. Albert Mason, but to the other two, as well, if you understand me," Beryl was now sobbing so hard, Elsie could hardly understand her. But she did anyway, and now her own tears were falling.

"Mrs. Patmore, _Beryl_ , it makes plenty of sense, and I don't seen anything but good in it. That something good – _something wonderful_ – like the four of you finding each other could come from our dear lad William's death, well it makes me think maybe sometimes life _is_ fair, even if it hurts an awful lot sometimes, too," and now _she_ was crying unabashedly, because sometime life was terrible and unfair and cruel, but sometimes it was really wonderful, too.

And they stood and hugged each other, sobbing and laughing at the same time.

And that's when Charlie walked in, humming to himself, to find the cottage in half disarray with two weeping women standing over a half-finished lunch. He took it all in and removed his hat slowly.

"What is happening? Are you both quite alright?" He paused, and through her tears she could see him really taking her in. "And why, Mrs. Hughes, are you dressed like a boy in an Italian pantomime?"

Elsie turned to Beryl and they both howled with laughter. Yes, life _was_ really wonderful sometimes.


	29. Paper Anniversary

**Chapter 29 – Paper Anniversary**

 **A/N: Guys, I am seriously such a geek; every time I start a chapter now, I get choked up. Eeeeesh. I think it's because I am writing this emotional journey between these two people who are very similar in age to my parents (and Elsie is one of my mom's favorite DA characters) and I visited them this week because my mom needed surgery (she's fine!), leaving my babies and man at home. I am overly emotional! I view writing this story as my therapy, hahahaha. Anyway, I am carrying on. Life is about the ups and downs, no? ~CeeCee**

Once the women had calmed down, he joined them at the table for lunch, and the three of them spent a pleasant half hour chatting about nothing particularly important over sandwiches and cold salads. Charlie knew he was missing something, and planned on getting it out of Elsie once Beryl Patmore left. The cook was barely out the door when he turned to his wife, who was clearing the dishes from the table. He moved across the room to help her, something that had taken him a concerted effort in the first few months of marriage, but now came more naturally. Plus, despite his utter confusion upon seeing her outfit at first, the trousers she had on were quite fetching, now that he'd a moment to take them in. He felt a pull towards her that had little to do with gallantry.

"So?" He placed the plates he was carrying in the basin. "Am I to guess the subject of the hysteria I came home to, or are you going to share it with me voluntarily?"

"Hysteria," she rolled her eyes at him, "Hardly. Here, make yourself useful, take your jacket off, and help get these things back on the shelf. I was nearly through the actual cleaning when Mrs. Patmore arrived, now it's all about tidying up. 'Many hands make light work', and all that." She grinned at him, and he raised his eyebrow at her, but shed his coat, rolled up his sleeves.

She stood on a stool by the shelves in their sitting room and directed him to bring certain brick-a-brack, doodads, framed pictures, vases and books, in an order he could not comprehend but dutifully obeyed.

She took a stack of novels from him, and grinned down at him. "Beryl Patmore is getting married, to Albert Mason," she announced, turned and began shelving the books, leaving him standing there puzzling over the statement.

"What?"

"Honestly, Charlie, ye can't be surprised. Some courtships move a mite fast than _ours_ , even when they involve folks near our age," she turned to him, putting her hands on her hips. And there was something about the way she was standing, kerchief tied around her hair, those damnable _trousers_ hugging all the womanly parts of her, that he was sucker-punched, as he had been frequently the past year, with a wave of combined lust and gratitude.

Now it was her turn to ask, "What?"

"Dare I say it, Elsie, those trousers of yours leave very little to the imagination," he put a hand on her waist.

"Pssht. What imagination, you daft man, you've seen it all at this point," she pretended to wave him away. "What happened to looking like I'm acting in a pantomime?"

"I've reconsidered," he replied, and pulled her off the stool, kissing her, running a hand down her back and onto the seat of the trousers. She responded enthusiastically, and all thoughts of tidying up were forgotten for a few minutes.

"We mustn't lose ourselves, Mr. Carson, or this house will be in complete disarray," she pushed him away playfully with another kiss, and moved towards the archway between the kitchen and sitting room, where several boxes were still waiting to be stored.

He fought a wave of regret and desire as it battled with his own intrinsic need for everything to be in its proper place. He supposed there would be time later this evening...he followed her, hoping to get through the work quickly. Then he noticed the board in the kitchen looked more crowded than usual. She'd probably found some things whilst cleaning that she pinned up there. He moved over to it, and immediately noticed the picture postcard he'd purchased three years ago.

She was next to him, smiling up at him. He pulled her close again.

"I told you I saved it."

"Aye, I never doubted you. 'Twas fun to stumble upon it today, though, as I was going through things."

His eyes caught on an old portrait of her sister. He put his fingers on it. "I wish you hadn't felt the need to hide her from me. Though I understand why you did." Becky was difficult for him to contemplate; she was wrapped up in all of the things that were hardest for him: his own shame in not knowing what Elsie had taken on, secretly, for most of their working life together, along with his own unease at someone with a mental disability. He didn't have a place to put someone like Becky in his orderly, stratified world, except, perhaps, as someone at the bottom of it, which was so deeply ungenerous of him he'd rather not think about it. So he'd somewhat shuttled her to the side of it.

"Aye, I suppose you do, but I'm not sure any reason I had was good enough, and I am sorry now that I did," she shook her head, rested her fingers next to his on the image of her sister's face. "Ye know I've had a letter from her caretaker," he nodded and she continued, "Her heart is failing, she tells me. It's connected to…to what makes her simple-minded. She's not meant to live as long a life as the rest of us. I'd like to go and see her, after the baby's christening, before she's any worse off."

"Of course you do," he paused. He felt he had to apologize for his own secrets. He took her fingers with his own shaking ones. "I never should have kept this from you," he nodded towards his vibrating hand. "Because, of course, I really didn't. You noticed, and I noticed you noticing, before you even said anything. It was wrong."

Her eyes were filling with unshed tears, though they didn't spill over. "No, you shouldn't have kept it from me, and no, you really didn't. Being married means someone is paying attention to you, or they should be, and there's not much room for secrets. And I _was_ paying attention, Charlie. And while I certainly never'd say I'm _glad_ this is happening to you, I _am_ relieved it's something less serious than some of the things I'd been contemplating last fall."

Her words were a revelation to him. Just because _he_ knew what was happening to his body, having seen his father go through it, _she_ didn't. He'd not considered that he wife would be as concerned, or more so, than he was, since she had less information.

"I'm sorry. I didn't….consider you. I should have. No more secrets, I think, between us," he folded her into his arms, and noticed another photo stuck to the board. It was an informal photograph from their wedding reception, the two of them sitting, looking at each other, grinning, he in his shirt sleeves, she with the white roses Miss Baxter had pinned in her hair.

"I just realized. Our anniversary is in a few weeks," he said, looking down at her, smiling.

"That it 'tis," she grinned back, following his gaze. "What a fun day, wasn't it, Charlie?"

"It certainly was," he wanted to say more, to tell her how much delight and pleasure and simple joy she'd brought to his life each day since that one, even when he didn't act like it, her curmudgeon, as he knew he often was. Somehow, the words got stuck in his throat, as sometimes the most important ones do.

Instead, he had a thought. "First wedding anniversary, that's paper."

"Mayhaps we can skip the gifts, then, as I've just rid this house of a lion's share of it. We needn't add more!"

"Well, I don't know about that. We must honor the day, don't you think? Would two tickets to Lytham St. Annes fulfill the traditional requirement?"

" _Two_ tickets? Are you sure, Charlie?" She was crying, tearing streaming down her face. He wasn't sure she even felt them in her surprise.

"No, I'm not sure, at all. I'll need your guidance, potentially even reprimanding, if I don't know how to behave, which I don't, I am ashamed to say."

"That doesn't matter, ye old booby," she answered, wiping her tears away. "That ye'd even consider going with me, that's enough, don't you see?" And she reached up to kiss him, and his hands wandered back down towards the fascinating outfit she was wearing. He slipped his hands into the waistband of the trousers, pulled her blouse free and over her head. It fell to the floor with a whisper.

The mess could wait.


	30. Simply, Becky

**A/N: I KNOW she was a shoddy, nonsensical** ** _deus ex machina_** **. I don't care. I've tried to breathe life into her through this fic, and I think visiting her together is good for our favorite 'ship.**

 **And I have the rest of this fic roughly sketched out. It will have a total of 35 Chapters, and end happily (I mean aside from me sobbing that I've nothing left to write). Xoxo, CeeCee**

June 1926

They were nearly there, after the familiar train ride through Lancashire to the western coast. What wasn't familiar to her was having company; this was the first time she'd not been traveling alone to visit her sister in the quarter century she'd been making this trip to Lytham St. Annes.

She turned to Charlie, who'd been mostly silent on the journey. She knew he was nervous, unsure, uncomfortable. Becky was out of his scope of control, or understanding. But he was _here_ , with her, and she hoped he knew that she meant it: just his presence was enough. A man who, less than a year ago, was railing Beryl Patmore about her "adulterer's table" raining shame down on the hallowed halls and residents of Downton was taking a trip with her to see her disabled sister.

Classifying and ranking people was deeply ingrained in him; it helped him navigate and make sense of the world, and his place in it. His heart was good, and true, and generous, but his desire for order and structure often battled with his morality. She'd seen it time and time again through the years they worked together. He wanted things to be _right_. Oftentimes, it was she who pointed out that the proper path wasn't _always_ the right one, when she saw him struggling with it; many times it was Robert Crawley, bless his lordship's warm, democratic heart.

In the end, she knew he was here, sitting on this train pulling into the northwestern coastal point where Lytham and St-Anne's-by-the-Sea intersected, because of _her._ Becky had no place in his orderly rank and file; no, he was here because _she_ loved Becky. And he loved her.

"Alright?" She took his hand.

"I believe I am. Pretty here, isn't it? Not like Scarborough, but then again, I am inclined to remember that town as one of the most beautiful places on Earth," he grinned down at her, then his eyebrows wrinkled up in the middle. "I…I took the liberty of purchasing a gift for Becky. I hope that was appropriate?"

"Well, it was certainly kind of you," she replied, cringing inside. There wasn't much he could have gotten for her, a woman over fifty years old, which would be _appropriate_ as well as something she'd actually find interesting.

He pulled a largish, flat brown parcel from where he'd tucked it alongside his seat, frowned uncertainly at it. "I remembered…I remembered you saying that the best piece of advice you could give me was to approach Becky as if she were Miss Sybbie or Miss Marigold, or Master George," he paused, looking at her for confirmation.

"Aye, I couldn't guide you any better than that. Her sense of wonder, her mind, her heart – it's that of a wee child, Charlie," she replied, smiling, feeling sad. Becky's _mind_ was forever stuck in childhood, but her body, alas, was not, and it was failing her rapidly.

"Well, I took that to heart," he replied. "And, I was thinking of our honeymoon recently, of course…." He trailed off.

"What did you get her, Charlie?"

"Well…I bought her a kite."

"Oh Charlie! She's going to _love_ it. She really is."

oooOOOooo

Becky loved the kite.

Which was grand, because the day got off to a bit of a rocky start. They entered the high-ceilinged atrium of the facility Becky had called home for over two decades and were greeted immediately by a tall, sturdy woman in a nurse's uniform. She was in her late forties, with blond hair just beginning to go silver and the brightest, warmest blue eyes Charlie had ever seen. She strode over to Elsie and nearly swallowed his much smaller wife in a giant embrace.

"Elsie," she grinned down at her. Her voice was surprisingly light for such a large woman.

"Kathryn," Elsie replied, her voice filled with warmth and respect.

And his deep discomfort at being here started to seep away. He was once again struck by the enormity of the secret Elsie had kept, the depth and duration of it. She had a relationship, a friendship, with this woman, whom he'd not known existed until a few months ago.

Now the woman was turning her piercing gaze on him. "And you must be Mr. Carson," she held her hand out and he took it. She shook his palsied hand firmly, making no fuss over it. "I am Nurse Kathryn Clemmens; your sister-in-law has been one of my primary patients for just over twenty-four years. Sometimes, I feel I know her better than I know myself." She didn't wink at him, but he got the impression she'd like to.

Elsie stood there, quieter than usual, the shortest point in the triangle of humanity they formed. She looked overwhelmed. He reached over and took her hand. He noticed Kathryn Clemmens noticing, and approving. For some odd reason, it mattered to him. Perhaps it was because the nurse's particular choice of profession was so beyond his scope of understanding, of what he felt anyone with intelligence and means would _choose_ to do, he immediately respected her.

Kathryn turned and faced them together. "Before I bring you to her – she's _quite_ excited that you're here, and especially eager to meet Mr. Carson – I must warn you: she's declined significantly since you were here last winter, Elsie. She's mobile, but the edema – the swelling – has been particularly bad recently. We can bring her outside, but she'll need a chair, certainly. And she gets tired very easily. Please do not get offended if she drifts off on you."

"A far cry from running up and down the rocks, scaring the dickens out of sea birds," Elsie said quietly.

"She still loves to shout at them, never fear," Kathryn responded with a wry grin. "Poor creatures." She took a breath, brought her hands together in a business-like fashion. "Well? Are you ready?" She directed this question mostly to Charlie.

"Absolutely," his heart was pounding, and he wasn't sure exactly why. He just knew he didn't want to do this wrong, for himself, for Elsie. For Becky.

"Shall we?" And she turned and walked over to an open seating area, facing a wall filled with tall windows looking out on the sea promenade, with cyclists and pedestrians passing by, the sky and sea an expanse of blue beyond. There were several sets of people visiting; one woman was on her own, the closest person to the windows.

She turned, and Charlie knew it was her. Becky. He was grateful Nurse Clemmens had warned them; it had been for Elsie, of course, but even he could see the change in her sister since the last portrait she'd had taken, less than two years ago, the one he'd seen on that lovely, long, stolen day in Elsie's office, after they'd gotten engaged. The day he'd first kissed his wife.

In that photo, Becky had still mostly looked like an overgrown child. Now, the only thing left of the child she'd been were the eyes, slightly askew, and the pert nose covered in freckles. Her dark hair had thinned and started graying, her face scoured with lines. She was a woman both older and younger than her chronological age, somehow, by some dreadful twist of fate.

"Oh, Becky," Elsie's voice, a whisper, barely audible. He squeezed her hand, and she squeezed back, took a shaky breath. Her sister caught sight of her, and her face lit up.

"El! Hi, El!"

"Hi, Becks," and she broke free of him, and squatted gracefully in front of her, took her hands. "I brought someone to meet you, dear." Elsie reached up and brushed her hand through her sister's hair, and Becky leaned into it, closing her eyes in delight. Something in his heart spilled to see such a tender moment between them. And he suddenly realized his folly. Here he was, worried about being _uncomfortable_ when his wife's heart was breaking.

Becky had caught sight of him. "El! You brought Charlie! From the picture Kath gave me!" She turned her crinkly, crooked smile towards him.

He almost froze. Then rallied himself with thoughts of Miss Sybbie, Master George, Miss Marigold. Of their mothers, when they had been wee girls. An audience ready to be delighted, and performed for.

So he doffed his hat dramatically, and reached for Becky's chubby hand. "Miss Rebecca Jane Hughes, I presume?" He pressed his lips into the soft skin. "Charles Carson, at your service." He bowed deeply.

"Charlie! You talk fancy," she laughed, and clutched her chest. "El, I like it. He talks fancy. He kissed my hand." She directed this last observation at Kathryn Clemmens.

"Yes, Becky, he did. Your brother-in-law is gallantry itself," she replied, and now, he saw, she _definitely_ winked at him.

"Aye, Becky-me-lass, sometimes he _does_ talk fancy," Elsie was saying, still holding her sister's cheek.

"El? Why are you crying? Are you sad?"

"No, dear. Well, maybe a little, but nothing to be worried about," she took the handkerchief that Charlie proffered, wiped her cheeks dry.

"That was kind of you, Charlie. We must always think of others," Becky said with sudden seriousness. He tried not to laugh at her abrupt grave earnestness, but then saw Elsie was also biting the sides of her cheeks. Nurse Clemmens let out a sound somewhere between a cough and a snort.

"Well, Miss Rebecca Jane, I am being educated in kindness by your exceptional sister," he sat down in a chair next to her.

"Fancy talk!" She smiled at him gleefully, then down at Elsie, who had an unreadable expression on her face. Becky looked between the two of them and sighed.

"El and Charlie are married. I saw it in the photograph in my room, right, Kath? Did…did you get very many gifts, when you got married?"

"A fair few," Elsie stood and went behind her sister, placing her hands on her shoulders in a motherly way. She gazed down at him serenely over her sister's head.

"I've got a gift for _you,_ Miss Rebecca Jane. Would you like to open it?"

"A gift for me? Oh, Charlie, _thank you_. Thank you one hundred times!" She grabbed the brown paper package, and they were forgotten for the moment, in her eagerness to get to the present. He stood and walked over to Elsie, as she looked down at her sister's delight.

She looked back up at him. "Aye, at _least_ one hundred times, I think."

oooOOOooo

Charlie and Becky were flying the kite.

It was a beauty, a box kite in four bright colors: red, green, purple and gold. Her sister really _was_ far less mobile than she had been, even half a year ago; Kathryn had been wise to warn them, to warn _her._ They had pushed her down to the edge of the sand in a mobile chair, then set up a stationary chair for her to rest on, with a blanket on her lap.

Becky wavered between wanting the kite all to herself, holding the end of the string tightly, and barking friendly orders at Charlie, resulting in him running back and forth over the same ground, lest he move too far away, and she worry the kite would be out of her sight.

Elsie could feel her heart being pulled in a dozen different directions, buffeted by various emotions, as the kite was by the sea breezes. She and Kathryn stood above them, on the promenade, waving on occasion, or to chastise Becky to stop shouting at the birds, already.

"The kite was a wonderful idea," Kathryn mused, as it rose in the air again and Becky cried out with delight. "Was it yours?"

"I am ashamed to say, no," Elsie shook her head. All of the times she'd been out here, standing in the sea wind, she'd not thought to bring a kite. "It was Charlie's. I didn't even know he'd gotten her a gift until we were on the train." She chose her words so, so carefully. She felt so many things, standing here, watching her husband do his best to please her dying sister. The wrong utterance would start the tears flowing again, and she wasn't sure she would be able to stop this time.

Kathryn's sharp, compassionate eyes took her in, seemed to understand. "You've been married for a year, then?"

Elsie nodded, smiled a little. "Fastest year in my long life, I think. Though I feel as if we have far more than one year of marriage between us."

Kathryn smiled back. "He's the friend you mentioned often, when you would visit, isn't he? The one who works in the same house – Downton, isn't it, in Yorkshire?"

Elsie laughed a little, shrugged. "Did I mention him often?"

"You did," Kathryn's eyes were twinkling.

"Aye, I suppose I did."

"The world is changing, isn't it? A generation ago, you mayn't have been here, together, as a couple," Kathryn mused, and Elsie nodded. She was right. "Elsie, I want to talk to you about something. About Becky, about people like her, and how the world sees people like her."

Elsie nodded, and the nurse continued, "There's a doctor here, Dr. James Forster – and if that name sounds familiar, it may be because _I_ mention _him_ often," both of the women laughed a little at her aside, but she continued.

"When he was younger, Dr. Forster worked briefly with Dr. Down, who identified the syndrome Becky has. His background is in genetics, which are the traits we inherit from our parents, or grandparents. But James – Dr. Forster – is very interested in reaching beyond what the research tells us, and apply it to real people. People like Becky. As you know, most people in Becky's situation, those who function relatively well with daily, familiar and repetitive tasks, are usually very happy and can be hard and effective workers when provided guidance. We, along with a few others here, are going to establish another sort of living space for those who can be taught to work, earn a living, doing simple tasks that can be brought in, such as mending or cleaning, with their wages going towards running the facility. It will also be a place for some of our long-time patients to spend their final days."

And now the nurse's warm but calm exterior cracked a little. Tears shone in her eyes. "We'd like Becky to be one of those patients. I know…I know it's a lot to take in, and that _this_ place has been her home for half of her life. But _I_ would be there for her, and Dr. Forster, and it's Yorkshire, much close to you, and your husband. The change will be difficult for her, I know, especially now. She will miss the sea…and the birds," she paused as both women laughed, wiping tears from their eyes. "But she will be with people who care for her a great deal, and nearer to those who love her even more."

Elsie could hardly gather her thoughts into words. She still fought the tears, because she knew, she _knew_ , they would never stop once she started. She cleared her throat, fighting the rising lump stuck there. "I think it sounds extraordinary, Nurse Clemmens. I certainly hope your Dr. Forster knows what he's getting himself into."

"I'm not sure that he does," Kathryn wiped her tears away. "Not entirely."

"It may be best that they don't, these men of ours," Elsie replied, smiling ruefully at Charlie running down the beach with the kite. It caught air, and plummeted to the ground. Becky shrieked woefully, and Charlie started moving again. The kite caught a fresh breeze, and wobbled, gently, precariously, in the air, trying to reach higher, as Becky shouted encouragement.


	31. Becky, Again, Always

**A/N: I had something less sad, a completely different sort of chapter, almost entirely written before I scrapped it. It was all wrong. This was right. ~CeeCee**

November 1926

Charles looked at the group of eager, interested faces before him. Yorkshire farmers, shopkeepers, publicans, solicitors; working class and middle class people, in couples, trios, some with their children, all waiting for him to speak. About Downton. The place and people which had been his home and life for so long, even if it no longer held as large of a place in his heart as it once had. Those feelings, that loyalty, were crowded to the side, but certainly not replaced, by the love he felt for his wife.

An idea that had been germinating over the summer had come to fruition this fall:

He had become docent at Downton.

An endeavor he had once thought of with scorn and confusion had become something he truly loved; he could scarcely believe it. He had brought up the idea to Barrow, who had responded with enthusiasm. Charles got the impression that Thomas Barrow missed the hustle and rush of the earlier years at Downton, as he would, if he were still butler here. The tours certainly helped in that respect.

And the pure joy on Lady Mary's face when they approached her about the idea of his heading and organizing the regular tours of the house warmed his heart nearly as much as the look of pride in Elsie's eyes when he told her of his scheme. This was the third time he was leading them, and they proved to be as popular as they had been last year, that first time. Perhaps even moreso.

"They're coming to see _you_ , don't think otherwise," Elsie had told him just this morning as they dressed for work.

"They're coming to learn about _Downton,_ and the Grantham dynasty. They have a thirst for history, which I can admire," he replied, flattered by her compliment but knowing there was mischief somewhere in there.

She smoothed his tie down, and her eyes were gleaming. Mischief, indeed. "Oh, I've no doubt they want to learn all about that glorious house and those glorious people. They just trust _you_ to tell them the truth, rather than the Crawleys themselves." She finished fussing over his clothes and kissed him on the corner of his mouth.

"They must know that I'd sooner keel over dead in front of them than reveal the family's secrets."

"Aye, perhaps…but they also know you've seen a lot in the past fifty years in those hallowed halls. Hope springs eternal, does it not?" He helped her into her coat, and put his hat on. "And they don't want secrets from you Charlie; they want the little things: how does Lady Mary take her tea? Does the Dowager prefer roses or lilies? They want to be reminded that the Crawleys are people, just like the rest of us, even if they _are_ a grand English dynasty."

And she was right. That's exactly what they wanted to know. As he led them into the library, a young woman with bright eyes and a green hat raised her hand as he was about to expound on the original construction of the room.

"What does the family like to read, sir?" Her question caused murmurs of interest to ripple out around her. "The ladies, particularly?"

He was about to answer, thinking again how, sometimes, Elsie got it just right, when Barrow appeared at the doorway. He looked somber and nodded at him. He didn't like the expression on the younger man's face.

"Excuse me for a moment, everyone. The tour will resume shortly," he walked over to Thomas, a heavy feeling in his chest.

"Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Carson. But…Mrs. Hughes just received a phone call. I do believe it was her sister's nurse," Thomas looked genuinely concerned. "She took the call in my pantry, and I suggested she stay there until I could locate you. I'll step in, for now. I've sent for Mr. Molesley, who will take over the tours for the rest of the day."

The heavy feeling in his chest spread, and he was suddenly tired. "Thank you, Mr. Barrow. I do appreciate it." _Becky,_ he thought. And went to find his grieving wife.

oooOOOooo

He nearly crashed into Beryl Patmore at the bottom of the stairs. The cook was going to be marrying Albert Mason at the beginning of the New Year. It was unclear whether or not she'd stay on at Downton thereafter, but Charlie was glad of her presence now.

"Mrs. Patmore, my apologies."

"Not at all, Mr. Carson, I appreciate why you're hurryin'," the cook looked ready to weep. "She's in Mr. Barrow's office. I took her some tea, tried to speak with her a little." The woman shook her head, wiped a stray tear from her face with her apron. "But she's just a'sittin' there, quiet-like, not movin'. I am glad you're here, today, Mr. Carson. I really am." She put her hand on his arm and squeezed it.

"As am I, Mrs. Patmore. You're a good friend – to us both," and he left her standing there, not seeing the surprised but grateful look on the cook's face, hurrying to the pantry that had been his for decades, and now belonged to another man. He opened the door without knocking, shut it behind him. Then did something he'd never done in all his time here, as it never seemed proper: he locked it. Some things required privacy over propriety.

She wasn't sitting any longer, but standing in the middle of the room, so still. Her eyes were unfocussed, her face soft. His heart crumbled in his chest to see her this way. He moved towards her, but she held one hand up.

"Don't, Charlie," she spoke barely above a whisper. "Not here. If ye touch me now, love, that'll be the end of it. The tears'll come and there will be naught to stop them. There's too many of them, over fifty years' worth, and I shan't shed them here."

He nodded, torn. Everything in his being longed to physically protect her, hold her close, keep the grief at bay. As if anything could. It struck him that had her sister died even three or four years ago, he might never have even _known_ of her grief, let alone share in it. He wanted to hold her, yes, and he could feel that she needed it, too. But even behind closed, locked doors, she wouldn't give this house her pain. As he gazed at her, he realized she really _could_ have hidden her grief from him, five, ten years ago.

They just stood there for a few moments, all of the invisible strings connecting them pulling tight, singing with sorrow, like a minor chord played on a violin.

"Let me walk you home, then," he finally said.

"What about the tours? They've only just started," she replied, sounding as sensible and no-nonsense as ever. "Nothing against Mr. Barrow, but he'll not conduct them the way you do."

"He's sent for Mr. Molesley."

Elsie's eyes lit up. "Good on him. He's learning," she even smiled a little, as she mused over Thomas' clever course of action. "It's heartening to see it happening, at long last."

She stepped closer to him, gazed up him for a long time. He placed his hands behind his back so he didn't reach out and stroke her cheek. "Stay," she finally said. "Stay until things get sorted. Mr. Molesley might take some time, if he's teaching today. I'll…I'll take my own time walking home, and I'll see you there soon enough."

He went and got her coat, helped her into it, as he had only a few short hours ago. He remembered their bantering, happy conversation from merely a few hours ago and was hit by a fresh wave of sadness.

"She was mine, as few others are," she said softly. "For so long, Charlie, she was _mine._ The joy of her, the burden of her. And now…she's gone." Her voice caught just a little as they walked to the door together. He turned the lock and began to open it, when she pressed her cheek briefly against his shoulder. Then she ran her hand across his face, pushed the door open, and walked quickly down the hall.

And then she, too, was gone.

oooOOOooo

The day was chilly and windy and grey, exactly suiting her mood. She rushed away from the looming bulk of Downton, away from Charlie's warm gaze and yearning eyes, before she could fold into them. For now, her grief was hers, no one else's. She even resented the broken sound of Kathryn's voice on the end of the telephone, which was wholly unfair and wholly true.

Her grief was a huge thing, filling her. She could feel the tears pressing against her entire face, and she shoved them away as hard as she could. _Not here, not now._ She practically ran from Charlie, not wanting to succumb, at least not yet, to the comfort he could provide. Because wasn't ready to deal with the behemoth of sadness inside of her, but for another reason, which she admitted to him in so many words, before she made her escape:

Becky was hers. _Had been_ hers. She'd been Elsie's for just over fifty-three years, and no matter how many ways she twisted and turned her mind around it, she felt that what she had given her sister wasn't enough, that it wasn't even _close._ And yes, her grief was a giant thing, but so was her guilt, because now she didn't have to worry about being enough, of doing enough, of working harder and longer.

She took a deep breath of cold almost-winter air, damp and fragrant with dried leaves and wood smoke. It felt good, almost icy enough to sting her nose and throat a little. She pressed on her walk, now wanting to be in her own chair in her own sitting room.

Then she saw the geese.

Geese, standing in the field to the right of her, giant, pink-footed things, at least two dozen of them. She didn't think. She ran towards them, sending them skyward, darker grey vees against the lighter gray of the scurrying clouds. They sent out honks of outrage into the November morning, echoing the anger in her own heart.

oooOOOooo

He arrived home late afternoon, with a hamper of food Beryl Patmore had pressed into his arms. He stepped inside, where it was very quiet, very still, as if the air itself hadn't moved in a while. He found her in the sitting room, on the floor, in the center of a makeshift collage of photographs, tickets, drawings, letters and other faded paper mementos, fanned out in front of her on the dark red throw rug. He stood at the outer edge of the paper explosion, not wanting to disturb anything.

She looked up at him, smiled. "Hello, love."

Her eyes were bright. Her mind and heart were somewhere in the past, he could see, remembering something that made her happy. She stood, surrounded by memories.

He reached his hand out to her, the steady one, and she grasped it, stepping carefully over the pieces of her past, pieces of Becky, scattered below her, her tears already falling. She stood close to him, her eyes seemingly unable or unwilling to focus on him, on their home, on the present. She was still somewhere else, with her sister. He waited, put his other hand on her face. He could feel her pulse threading quickly on the side of her neck.

She finally held his gaze. "Charlie, I –" she got no further before the sobs overtook her, and he gathered her up against him, as closely as he could, trying to take her sorrow and guilt and anger on as much as he could, knowing that it wasn't enough, it _couldn't_ be enough, but endeavoring to, anyway.


	32. A Jar Full of Love

Chapter 32 – A Jar Full of Love

 **A/N: I am slightly traumatized from the last two chapters, so this one is filled with joy, to the brim. ~CeeCee**

May, 1927

Elsie arrived at Yew Tree Farm right after dawn had stained the skies pink and orange, the morning dew still shimmering on each blade of grass. It was going to be a beautiful day, she could feel it. A perfect day for a wedding. She hurried through the farmyard, past the prize-winning pigs, who were snorting excitedly in anticipation of breakfast. Before she could reach the door to the farmhouse, Andrew's strong, gangly frame stepped around from behind the barn, each hand clutching a filled-to-the-brim slop bucket.

"Ah, Andy! The groom himself. A good morning to you, and the whole day through," she grinned at him. He was a kind, hardworking lad, and a good match for Daisy. "They've got ye workin' before dawn on your weddin' day?"

"If you think I'm working hard, Mrs. Hughes, wait 'til you see Mrs. M in there; she's not stopped moving, I think, in a week, at least," he grinned, rolled his eyes.

"Well, I'm here to help, lest she collapse before the big moment," she laughed, shaking her head. Beryl Mason, by any name, was certain to be a whirling dervish of nerves, love, potential outbursts and delicious food for the duration of the day. "Where are you getting ready? Ye can't come inside, lest ye see Daisy before this afternoon; its bad luck!"

"At Downton. Last day in the staff quarters," he grinned hugely, then flushed bright red.

"Go on with you now. Get your work done, and get yourself presentable. By the look of those pigs, you'll need some time for it," she shooed him away, chuckling, distracting him from his embarrassment.

She hurried across the yard and walked into one-woman chaos.

Beryl was standing at the stove, muttering angrily to herself. Every burner was covered with a simmering pot or pan; a beautiful, simple wedding cake, decorated with several delicate sugar flowers, was resting on the sideboard.

"Good morning," Elsie began, taking her jacket off and grabbing a spare apron. "I'm here to help, as promised. Though you seem to have everything under control…?"

"Ah! Thank goodness, Mrs. Hughes. Finally, someone with sense, unlike _anyone else_ in this house," she huffed, slammed down a wooden spoon, sending a spray of some unidentifiable sauce flying. Elsie held in her laughter; it wouldn't do to get her friend more riled up than she already was.

Suddenly a distraction appeared in the form of Mr. Mason. "Ah, good morning, Mrs. Carson! What a lovely day it 'tis, don't you think?"

"A good morning, you say, until it all falls apart and nothing gets finished," Beryl turned to her husband, brandishing the spoon.

He seemed entirely unfazed, leaning over to plant a hearty kiss on her cheek. "That it is, my dear. The children are getting married today, there's only good, and even more good, still, to come out of that. Don't be fussed about the little things."

Everything about Beryl Mason deflated into happy acquiescence at his words. It was so sudden a shift that Elsie could hardly account for it. "Go on with you, Albert. You'd like some coffee, then?" She busied herself fixing him a large mug as he watched her appreciatively. She poured Elsie a cup of tea, strong, with milk, and one for herself too. They stood there, in a brief moment of calm, sipping their drinks. Elsie thought to herself how funny love was, how transformative.

"Good morning, Mrs. Hughes!" Daisy stood in the doorway that led to the back of the house, dressed in a simple housecoat. She looked happy and flushed, as she whispered, "Andy's outside, feedin' the pigs, is he? I don't want him to see me!"

The trio of them nodded, grinned at each other like schoolchildren. Beryl bustled over to the girl, pushing her down into a seat at the kitchen table, and placing an enormous plate of food in front of her.

"Mrs. Patmore, I'll never eat alla that! Not in two lifetimes!"

"You _will_ eat it all, as we don't want yeh to keel over from starvation before the ceremony," she replied in a tone that wasn't to be challenged, as she turned back to the stove. Daisy merely stared wide-eyed at her, then glanced over at Elsie and Mr. Mason for help.

In a deft move, Mr. Mason walked over to Daisy, kissed her on the head, and snuck two pieces of toast and a sausage into his coat pocket. "I best assist the groom with the morning chores, so he can be on his way. I will see you later today, my dears, Mrs. Carson," he put his cap on with a nod and a smile, and went out into the yard.

Daisy gazed after him with real love on her face, digging into the other sausage. She turned back to Elsie, who couldn't help but laugh herself. Daisy choked a little, took a sip of tea.

"Are you ready, then, Daisy?"

"I don' actually know, Mrs. Hughes. Andy's awfully kind and thoughtful, isn't he? Hard-working, too, 'e is, and cleverer than he thinks. Imagine! Learnin' to read, from nothin', inna year? Mr. Molesley says he's quite keen," she grinned, looking very proud of her betrothed.

"And quite handsome, as any worthy young man ought to be," Beryl turned from the stove, shooting a crooked grin in Elsie's direction as she handed her a gigantic pot of who-knows-what, "Put that over there, for now, on the table past the cake. Mind it goes on the trivet. Ooh, ho, what an odd feeling it is, orderin' _you_ around, Mrs. Hughes!" Elsie took the pot willingly, rolling her eyes.

"He _is_ quite good-looking, isn't he? Andy, I mean? The way 'is hair sort of curls over 'is forehead, a little…" she trailed off, a small smile on her face, took another bite of her breakfast. The older women caught each other's eyes and burst out laughing.

Daisy's reverie broke, and her cheeks flushed deep pink.

"You sound perfectly ready to _me,_ Daisy, and good on yeh, my girl," Beryl's voice broke a little on the last few words, and she leaned over and kissed her surrogate daughter in nearly the same spot her husband had a few minutes before. Elsie swiped a tear from her cheek, but didn't mind it much.

"Let's get to work, now, yeh hear?" Beryl was wiping her own cheeks dry on her apron.

It was going to be a beautiful day, alright.

oooOOOooo

Charlie arrived at Yew Tree Farm in the late morning, entering the happy, frenetic rushing back and forth that he so loved about large events; the long picnic tables with mismatched plates and the wildflower bower were a far cry from anything he'd overseen at Downton, but there was always something life-affirming about the gathering of people in celebration, and he'd known Daisy since she was little more than a girl.

He walked through the yard towards the house, and ran into Anna heading in the opposite direction.

"Good morning, Mr. Carson! Looks like a fine day for wedding, doesn't it?" She grinned at him, her face slightly rounded from her pregnancy. The Bateses were expecting their second child at the end of the summer.

"Indeed it does, Anna. Where are you off to, then?"

"Going to nick some flowers from the tables – we need a few more for Daisy's hair. Miss Baxter is helping her with her dress and jewelry right now. We finally got Mrs. Patmore out of the kitchen about a half hour ago, so she'd be presentable for the ceremony, but only after Mrs. Hughes swore up and down she'd everything under control in the kitchen. Not a word that she's in there minding Will right now," she smiled and patted him on the arm and walked purposefully away across the yard.

He walked into the farmhouse and grinned at the sight that met him. Elsie, be-aproned and hair escaping its pins, surrounded by platters loaded down with food, pots steaming on the stove, and tiny Will Bates in her arms. She was singing to the small boy:

"A frog he would a-wooing go,  
Heigh ho! says Rowley,  
A frog he would a-wooing go,  
Whether his mother would let him or no.  
With a Rowley,  
Powley…."

She spun the boy around, dipped him upside down and back up, so his dark hair went flying, and he shrieked with delight, patting her cheeks.

"A'gin, a'gin!"

"Aren't you supposed to be keeping things under control here?" He said, with mock sternness.

"Oh, look, wee Will! It's Mr. Froggie, coming a-wooing!"

He raised his eyebrow at her.

"Fooooggg!" Shouted Will, and pointed at him. "Fogggieee! A'gin!"

"Well? You _are_ the expert, from a long times past, if memory serves," she proffered the baby at him. They both glanced at his right hand, which, while it hadn't gotten worse in a long while, wasn't exactly still and steady, ever. She smiled gently and nestled the little boy in the crook of his steady arm, keeping her hand on the baby's bottom. "Together, then?"

And he lifted the tyke way up, high, higher, with Elsie supporting him – them – and the child giggled with glee and delight. "Foooggiee!'

"A-wooing, indeed," he said, leaned down, and gave her a quick but thorough kiss.

"You're getting rather bold in your old age, Mr. Carson."

"Whom are you calling 'old' Mrs. Hughes?"

Anna walked in, with a bunch of pink and white flowers in her hands. She grinned up at her son, perched atop Charlie's shoulder. "Look who's way up there!"

"Foggie, Mum! A'gin! A'gin!" Anna grabbed his foot and tickled it, turned to Elsie.

"Mrs. Hughes, I do believe you best be getting dressed, unless you're planning on making a daring fashion statement at the wedding," Anna's eyes were twinkling.

"Dear me, is that the time? Quite right, Anna. We'll leave Will in the capable hands of Mr. Carson, shall we?" The two ladies smiled at the pair of them and disappeared further into the house.

"It's just we gentlemen, then, Master William." He looked seriously at the small boy.

The baby put his hand on Charlie's tie, patted it. "A-woo, Foggie. A'gin."

"I suppose you're right, at that, m'boy."

oooOOOooo

The two young people were wed, under a bower of flowers and a canopy of trees, their joy infusing all of those around them. Elsie and Albert Mason nearly had to hold his wife upright during the ceremony, but Beryl made it through only using about five handkerchiefs for the duration.

And just as they were all moving to the long tables to eat, something of a surprise: Andy waved his hands to everyone for attention, and the crowd stopped to attend to the groom, who was blushing from his chin to the tips of ears.

"Thank you, everyone, for being here today. I am no speaker, a'tall. I am a footman, soon to be a farmer," he paused, as the crowd cheered their encouragement. "I've something I'd like to read, to Daisy – to my wife," he grew redder, if that was possible, as he snuck a glance at the woman in question, who smiled contentedly up at him. "But I first need to thank a few people, if you'll bear with me. Most importantly, Mr. & Mrs. M, Mason, that is," another cheer went up, and Elsie handed her last dry handkerchief to her friend, as Albert put his arm around his wife's shoulder, grinning broadly. "We'd never be here without you."

"And then, I said I'd be readin' something here today, for Daisy. But I'd not have been able to do that without three other people. So, another thank you goes out to Mr. Molesley and Mr. Barrow, for the teaching of it, and Mr. Carson, helping me select the right words. So this is," he paused, cleared his throat again, and unfolded a pocket-worn piece of paper. Elsie could see his hand was shaking, a little. "This is Sonnet 116, by William Shakespeare,

"Let me not to the marriage of true minds  
Admit impediments. Love is not love  
Which alters when it alteration finds,  
Or bends with the remover to remove:  
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark  
That looks on tempests and is never shaken…"

Elsie leaned over to Charlie, whispered. "Ye never said ye were helpin' Andy with this declaration of love," she grinned up at him.

"Well, _some_ things can still be a surprise, can they not?" He grinned back.

"This certainly classifies. Who knew you were so well versed on love poetry?"

"Again, some things are better as _surprises._ "

"Ye've never read _me_ love poetry," she said teasingly.

"No, I've not, I am ashamed to say," he responded, then continued, a gleam in his eye. "However, if you are _very_ lucky, I may sing you another chorus of 'Frog Has Gone A-Wooing' before the night is through."

"How romantic," she swatted his arm, bit back laughter. She meant it.


	33. Third Time's a Charm

**A/N: Hey guys (ladies, more probably). So, this is it. This is THE END. The last chapter of this story of mine.**

 **This author's note is long, so I understand completely if you choose to skip it. I wanted to write it, however. I kinda need to. I won't lie - this ending wasn't exactly what I had in mind, at first. Way back in July when I started writing this story, I had two ideas for an ending: the first, the original, that takes place after Charlie dies, with an unexpected graveside meeting between Elsie and Mary. The other, once I decided against such a melancholic ending, swung in the other direction: happy sentiment. It was to be the penultimate chapter, originally. A happy scene with all of our faves; the christening of Mary's third child, a girl, named after the Dowager, with Charlie and Isobel as godparents. A happy if sentimental ending scene, with nearly the whole crew we love in attendance.**

 **Neither makes sense anymore, though you may see some version of either or both appear in a later story, if I have more to say about these guys (I might. I just might). I called this story "A History of Moments" because that's what life is made up of. The obviously significant ones, and the ones that seem forgettable, yet aren't. All of those beads, big and small, we string onto the necklace of life. We can't possible remember everything. We are each left with our chosen (consciously and unconsciously) moments.**

 **I don't know you guys. You don't know me. Yet, here I am. Yet, here you are. And you. And you. Reading something I typed an hour or a day or a week or a month ago. It's not a new thought, but it's true: these words connect us, even briefly. We've shared something. I, sitting here at the computer at 1 p.m. on a rainy Thursday afternoon, am connected to you, reading this as you ride the stationary bike tomorrow morning. Or scroll through this story on your phone at 1 a.m. two weeks from now, rereading your favorite part. Or as you try to read JUST ONE MORE CHAPTER before you pick the kids up at violin. I've cried writing this. Cried because I adore these characters, and cried because this story has been pure THERAPY for me this summer into fall. In and of itself, but also because it's sparked some pretty amazing conversations and interactions with a variety of people in my life, about love, romance, feminism, classism, democracy, intimacy in every form, discrimination and ageism, just to name a few.**

 **In the end, I tried to remember what this story is about: these two people, these two characters. Their shared moments, the moments that impacted their lives as they wound themselves together. Those moments of all sizes. And that each witnessed the other person's life in these moments. Just that. Which is so much, really. It's everything.**

 **Okay, I am done.**

 **Except...thank you. Thank you. Thank you.**

 **~CeeCee**

The early hours of New Year's Day, 1928

She woke up with a gasp, her heart pounding. Her eyes flew open to the near-darkness of the now-familiar room. Bluish moonlight, reflected on the thin layer of icy snow coating the world, shone through the bedroom window. She rolled over, reaching for Charlie. He wasn't there. She pushed herself up and out of bed, worry creasing her heart. She threw her dressing gown on, padded out into the sitting room, where the lonely light of one lamp was the only source of illumination.

"Charlie?"

He was sitting on the well-worn velvet loveseat, his long legs stretched out in front of him, hands crossed over his stomach, the left over the right, his head tilted back. Even from where she was, she could see how bad the tremors were. He was trying to quell them with his good hand, but it was only a partially successful attempt.

He raised his head, gazed at her. He looked tired, defeated.

"It's so...," he trailed off, shrugged a little angrily, squeezing his hands together tighter. "I couldn't sleep, and I didn't want to wake you."

"How ironic," she mused, walking over to his side, and stroking his face. "It wasn't _you_ who woke me; it was the absence of you."

He gaze up at her, and she could see his dark eyes were still stormy with anger and frustration at the betrayal of his body. "There _will_ eventually be a time, likely not too far into the future, where I _won't_ be here anymore." The fear was talking now, and she tried to ignore it.

"Aye, eventually, I can't argue with that. It's an eventuality none of us can avoid, though I suppose some have tried," she kept her voice light. Pragmatism flowed through her veins as surely as blood did, and she knew that chances were far more likely she would end a widow, than he a widower, thought she dreaded the thought of that day. "But I'll enjoy ye, while you're here, if you don't mind?" She leaned over and kissed his forehead.

He sighed, put his good arm around her waist. She transferred her kiss to his lips for a few seconds. When she pulled away, he looked more like himself.

"Tea, then?'

He nodded, his face softer. "Yes, thank you."

As she put the water on to boil, he hoisted himself from his seat and grabbed two large mugs, which were far easier for him to use with his left hand than a fussier cup and saucer. He hovered a little, and she knew he was regretting his sharp words, and didn't know how to make up for them. Not the truth of them; but the unkindness in them, the unkindness borne from his own frustration. But he wasn't wrong - some day, hopefully many years from now, she would wake up with the moon still in the sky, in her bed, alone. He would be gone, and she would still be here.

Over sixty years of sleeping alone. Not even three of sharing a bed, her nights, her days, with this man beside her. And yet, it was hard to imagine the loneliness of his permanent absence. _How quickly love takes root, in the end_ , _once you let it_ , she thought, and had to smile. She could have missed this. So easily. She grinned at him a little as she fixed the tea.

"You're crowding me, Mr. Carson," she stated as she added milk.

"I'm sorry."

"Here, take your tea and save your apologies for something worthwhile," she passed it him with a smile. "Everyone's short-tempered at three o'clock in the morning, I expect."

" _You_ don't seem to be," he responded, as they walked back to the love seat.

"Well, then, don't encourage me," she retorted, and the hangdog look finally left his face. He raised his eyebrow at her as he sat. She joined him, leaning back and throwing her feet onto his lap. He grabbed her toes and immediately let go.

"Good god!"

"What? It's winter," she chuckled, taking a sip of tea. "Now Charlie, be honest: did you realize the apogee of your life would be sitting, wide awake, in a dark sitting room in the middle of the night, with an old lady's freezing feet on your lap?"

"Impertinence," he sighed, like a term of affection.

She shift so that she was leaning against him, tucking the offending appendages under herself. He placed his bad hand on her leg, and she put her head on his shoulder. They sat in silence for a few moments, the tiny nighttime sounds of the cottage creaking and popping around them.

"Well, we made it to 1928, at least," she finally spoke.

"Happy Birthday, Master William Bates," he responded.

"Indeed. A youngster who made quite a memorable entrance into this world. We should expect great things from him," she mused.

"I wonder what he _will_ do," he replied. "Two parents who spent much, if not all, of their lives, in service. As much as it pains me to admit it, that likely won't be an option for him, attractive or otherwise."

"Well, he has a bit of time before he has to decide. Let him get all of his teeth in first, won't you? I suppose you've got the new Talbot's life trajectory all sorted before the wee _bairn_ is even born?" She said with a smile. Lady Mary was expecting her third child in the spring, and had surprised and touched Elsie by asking, very early on, Charlie and Lady Isobel to be godparents. She knew how honored he was to be asked, but couldn't help teasing a little.

She took their empty mugs and set them in the basin. When she returned, he pulled her down on to his lap. He looked at her, his brow creasing a little. Unwound her braid with his right hand.

"I see it's still functional in some capacity," she said dryly, grabbing it, pressing the palm against her cheek. She could feel it's vibration, like a hurried, worried heartbeat.

He pulled her closer and kissed her, with care. It was very easy to fall into habit, and take this all for granted. In some ways, that was a luxury: to take her presence, here, with him, in the middle of the night, for granted. He disregarded his bothersome hand for a few minutes, to really, thoroughly, kiss his wife.

"The world is changing," he said, when she leaned away, put her head on his shoulder.

"Aye, it is, but that's nothing new," her breath puffed pleasantly on his neck, splitting his concentration between the meaning and feeling of her words.

"I suppose you'll tell me I am finally paying attention to change, that its been happening all along," he said.

"As it has, indeed. Mayhaps, as we get older, it just seems to happen more quickly. But that's what life is, no? Its not static, unchanging, or thank goodness, _our_ lives haven't been, both by our own choices, and by happenstance, coincidence, fate, luck, or God, take your pick," she replied, lifting her head up, her much-loved face inches from his.

"What if I had wooed Alice, instead of Charlie Grigg, for example?"

"I can see it now, your illustrious joint life on the stage, possibly the silver screen..." she grinned at him.

"What if you had accepted Joe Burns' marriage proposal?"

"Which one?" Now she was laughing.

"The first one, of course," he replied, trying to sound stern. "You loved _me_ when he proposed the second time, there was never a chance you'd accepted him then."

"So very sure of yourself," she responded, but her voice was soft. "There were many reasons for that choice, thank you very much, even if I _was_ considering you, somewhere in my mind. But...mayhaps I did love you, even back then, though I didn't suppose anything could be done about it, not then, or for a long while afterwards. Besides, you were ready to abandon _me_ when the blessed Lady Mary was going to marry Richard Carlyle."

"That was different," he replied, struggling to articulate what he felt. How necessary it had seemed to guide Lady Mary, how sure he was that Elsie would somehow, some way, still be part of his life, even if he _had_ left Downton. His utter relief when Richard Carlyle's deviousness had made his decision impossible. Or maybe, he was always looking for an excuse to change his mind. "There still would have been..."

"Been what, exactly?"

"A chance. For something. Someday."

"Well, its comforting to know you had a detailed plan," she replied, and he grabbed her cold feet again. The both laughed.

"Maybe part of me _did_ realize that the apogee of my life would be sitting in a dark sitting room in the middle of the night, holding a... _beautiful_ woman's cold feet," he smiled at her, and then said more deliberately. "My wife's cold feet. _Your_ cold feet."

"'Life is the acquisition of memories,'" she replied, staring warmly at him, wiggling her toes.

"Who said that?" He liked the sentiment.

" _You_ did, you ninny," she laughed. "Years ago...I've forgotten the exact context, but not the words. See, I've been paying you mind for a long time, Charles Carson."

"If only I had known, I would have attempted to be wise more often," he replied. "You weren't the only one paying attention, Elsie."

"And it seems to me...it seems to me, when I take all of my memories out and give them a good look-over, you're in so very many of them, ye old booby," she replied, shaking her head a little. "And not just the big memories, lots of little ones, too."

"Like cold toes and tea in the middle of the night?"

"Yes, exactly. I knew you'd understand."

"Happy New Year, Elsie."

"Aye, Happy New Year, Charlie."


End file.
